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FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


FATE AND A 
MARIONETTE 


BY 


HANNA RION► 

*» 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS,” “THE SMILING ROAD,” 
“let’s MAKE a FLOWER GARDEN/' ETC. 




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NEW YORK 

EDWARD J. CLODE, Inc. 























































COPYRIGHT, I924, BY 
EDWARD J. CLODE, INC. { 


All rights reserved 


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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


SEP 27 *24 J 

©C1A808070 

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FATE AND A MARIONETTE 




FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


CHAPTER I 

The last moment, the end of anything, must inev¬ 
itably be written in minor. 

We remember only the best—forgetting in the senti¬ 
ment-freighted moments of finality the heartaches, 
disappointments, ashes. The last hours in the most 
sordid of dwellings become invested with regret—re¬ 
grets for the brave hopes, the fires of enthusiasm, the 
evanescent hours of happiness, which its grim walls 
have encompassed. 

So it was that Jerry Middleton looked about the 
dingy room of his insalubrious London lodging with 
the heartache of farewell. He had dreamed fair 
dreams there. He had stared at the dirty brown wall¬ 
paper and concocted courageous plans with the arro¬ 
gance of youth; he had warmed his soul with the flame 
of determination, as his body had shivered over the 
discouraged, unambitious, small fire in the tiny grate. 

The distorting, cheap mirror had so often reflected 
the last touches to a toilet carefully planned to give 
a fictitious air of prosperity, and to a face really illu¬ 
mined by a new day of fresh hopefulness. 

The three framed religious mottoes on the wall had 
become endurable and almost dear with that ineffable 
something bred of familiarity. 

And this was the room in which his great thought 
had come—The Solution. 


7 


8 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


He went to the grimy, fly-specked, rain-spotted 
window and stared down upon the ugly vehicles and 
lorries of Lisson Grove. He looked over at the 
Florence Nightingale Hospital and thought of the 
wistful-eyed, red-haired little nurse whom he had 
sometimes noticed gazing out unseeing, as one fighting 
some hopeless problem. She had once looked up and 
her glance had collided with his observing eye. He 
had smiled, not flirtatiously, but in a sort of touch-on- 
the-shoulder, hand-clasp fashion—the lip and eye mes¬ 
sage of a fighter to a fellow-soldier. Jerry wished she 
were at the window to-day. Perhaps she would have 
given him a smile for luck. 

He thought, a trifle wistfully, of his only acquaint¬ 
ance on the street, the polite little old man in the an¬ 
tique shop, where he had so frequently gone to look 
about, admire, covet, but never to purchase. 

He even thought, with a kindly tolerance, of his 
rusty-gowned, oily-faced, dirty-finger-nailed landlady. 
On the dressing-table lay an envelope addressed to her. 
It contained all he owed and one pound more—a gen¬ 
erosity made possible by the sale of his overcoat that 
morning and the fact that he himself would now have 
no imaginable use for the extra pound. 

His landlady had always distrusted and disliked 
him, because he was an American. Of course she’d 
think him queerer than ever now—think him as mad 
as a spinning white mouse. Perhaps he was. Un¬ 
doubtedly, from her point of view, and that probably 
of all other sane people—especially the English sane— 
he was on the verge of doing a perfectly mad thing. 
Yes, to nine hundred and ninety-nine people out of a 
thousand it would seem utterly mad. 

“But,” thought Jerry, “the nine hundred and 
ninety-nine would acknowledge themselves mashed if 
the Tank of Fate had passed over and over and over 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


9 

them. That’s where the difference lies. I don’t feel 
mashed. I don’t mash. How do I get that way? 
Dunno. S’pose it’s because I’m American.” 

Jerry mentally shrugged his shoulders—an outward 
and inward habit he had developed in France—and 
said aloud, as his thoughts shrugged, “C'est la vie” 

As he proceeded to disgorge the contents of his 
pockets he wrenched himself free from the last trace 
of gloom due to impending departure from things 
accustomed, and broke into a whistle. The notes 
of that classic war song known as “Parlez vouz” 
(which is not heard in drawing-rooms) filled the room 
with an atmosphere of insouciant cheeriness and 
irresponsibility. 

Whistling, he read over the various addresses of 
men of affairs scribbled on many slips of paper. How 
much gilt-edged hope each name had held out at one 
time or another. He walked over to the grate, which 
had become the crematory of his past, and flung the 
addresses on top of the smouldering remains of burnt 
letters. 

A silver cigarette-case was reluctantly drawn forth. 
He stared wistfully at its gold-lined emptiness. 

“Wish to the Lord I hadn’t had my monogram 
put on it,” thought he. “That piece of bull condemns 
it too. Can’t have anything with ‘J. E. M.’ found on 
me, which reminds me . . . ‘Cash’ name, maker’s 
and laundry marks must all be got off my clothes.” 

He disrobed, thinking meanwhile what a difficult 
business it was, this blotting out all evidences of one’s 
identity. Human beasts may not be branded as are 
the cattle, but they are pretty indelibly marked in 
one way or another, all the same. 

It was even difficult to find a virginal handkerchief, 
one free from all evidence of former possession. 

He walked toward the bed on which sat an open 


IO 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


travelling-bag. Beside it lay a few articles of clothing, 
two books—John Burroughs’ Time and Change — 
Locke’s Wonderful Year —and a small box. He 
opened the box. It held but a medal and bit of 
ribbon, but it held Jerry Middleton’s entire pride of 
memory. It was the Croix de Guerre. As he stared 
down upon the decoration, he re-lived an hour in a 
French hospital, and some later minutes on a certain 
field; there came a hitherto unknown tightening of 
the throat, as two large tears split over the surprised 
lashes of his eyes. With a characteristic American 
horror of sentimentality, he smeared the tears into a 
general dampness and flung the box and its contents 
into the tomb of the bag. It was the crude burial 
of his most treasured souvenir, the burial also of his 
last scruple, his conscience. . . . 

All the oddments on the bed followed the medal 
into the bag. He then helped himself to the two 
bricks, which an economical landlady had placed on 
either side of the grate to reduce its coal-holding 
capacity to still more Lilliputian dimensions. 

What to do with the bag now it was packed, weighted, 
and locked was, to use Jerry’s expression, enough to 
ball one up. Then suddenly there came to his memory 
a stagnant-looking canal once passed on a fruitless 
search for a job in Maida Vale. 

“It’s a long, long way,” he sighed, then braced up, 
as he added, “What am I thinking of? I don’t 
need to wear out my new kicks footing it now. When 
a fellow’s giving himself a sort of ta-ta outing, what’s 
a bus fare or two?” 

One thing only remained to be done—remove the 
moustache and beard which he had grown some 
months earlier in order to give an otherwise too youthful 
countenance the tone of maturity. These tonsorial 
adornments had, however, failed to inspire confidence 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


ii 


in the minds of callous employers. As the razor sped 
through the foaming breakers on his face, and he saw 
his countenance returning to its pre-peace youthful¬ 
ness, Jerry intoned: “And these are the cheeks which 
Petain kissed.” As he removed the last hairs, he 
told himself: “Can’t have any of the scornful guys 
who refused my services recognizing the pictures which 
will probably be published to-morrow.” 

Everything now being in order, Jerry stood for the 
last time before the cheap, distorting mirror, gave a 
touch to his harmonious tie, adjusted his immaculate 
cuffs, and apostrophized himself as follows: “Jerrold 
Emerson Middleton, I’ll tell the world you’ve been a 
dam’ good chum, a good fighter, and a cheerful duffer 
to live with. You haven’t shown any J. Pierpont 
genius, but you’ve been daggone game, and I’m right 
down proud of the rarefied regions to which your 
brain has soared in the final hour of Pittsburg black¬ 
ness. Now you are all dolled up, so step out amongst 
’em. All I can say is, ‘Cheerio!’ ” 

Two hours later a well-dressed, well-bred, bored- 
looking, excessively pale, and almost emaciated 
young man stood on the kerb of that busy spot of 
London where Euston and Tottenham Court Roads 
meet. 

He stared at the ceaseless tumult of traffic and took 
a last census of his emotions. If they could have 
been summed up in a concrete sentence, they might 
have run thus: “Of course it’s taking chances— 
chances of everything happening except the planned, 
but, after all, chance is the keynote of this venture, 
so here’s hoping, and here goes!” 

With a brief valedictory to common sense and his 
past, he walked out as a bather into a raging surf— 
straight into the traffic and the future. 


12 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

Half a minute later a policeman’s eye became 
attracted to a man standing transfixed in the mael¬ 
strom of Euston Road. The man took off his hat, 
ran his fingers through his short hair, and stared with 
drawn brows at an oncoming car. The car made a 
sharp detour, throwing an approaching 23 bus out of 
its accustomed route, and forcing it in turn to make a 
bee-line for the transfixed figure. The driver honked 
forth curses, and yanked on the brake, drawing up a 
short yard from the obstacle of traffic. Lurid language 
fell on apparently deaf ears. The object of invectives 
merely stared before him blankly as he slowly passed 
a hand over his forehead. 

A motor cycle, making the turn into Tottenham 
Court Road, almost grazed the man’s legs as it 
thundered by deafeningly, yet the most careful 
observer would not have detected the controlled 
wincing of the figure just missed. 

Manoeuvring himself between the congestion of 
traffic, the policeman lifted the hand of power and 
approached the cause of trouble. At sight of the 
Bobby the first glimmer of intelligence came to the 
face of the hitherto immobile figure. Springing across 
an open space, he seized the guardian of the law and 
cried: 

“Man! In God’s name find me —find me , I tell 
you.” Clutching the blue sleeve, he looked excitedly 
into the eyes of the calm policeman and asked, “How 
did I get here?” 

The Bobby gazed at him with an enormous British 
patience and remained silent. 

“Don’t you understand?” implored the speaker. 
“I’m lost—can’t remember—can’t—by George! . . .” 
He suddenly staggered, and a very curious blue pallor 
spread over his face. He would have fallen but for the 
quick support of a uniformed arm. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


13 

A whistle sounded. A second Bobby came hurrying. 
“What’s up?” he asked. “Suicide or a drunk?” 
“Neither,” said the supporter of Jerry Middleton. 
“Case for ambulance. Hunger, I think, and loss of 
memory.” 


CHATPER II 


The following morning Miss Felicity Trevider sat 
softly munching her breakfast toast while waiting for 
the maid to bring mustard for the bacon. Her eyes 
strayed through the mullioned windows, across a clear¬ 
ing in the Tolvean park above the wind-clipped even 
tops of distant trees, to the pale silver grey of the 
sea. 

It was the same view Miss Trevider had gazed out 
upon, in all aspects of weather—grey mists, tempests, 
sodden rains, and sparkling sunshine—as far back as 
she could remember, and her memory could span the 
mornings of more than half a century. 

The view was, to her, Cornwall, and the word 
Cornwall was probably engraved on both the auricles 
and ventricles of her heart. So intensely Cornish 
was Miss Trevider, she shared the fisher-folk’s aloof 
attitude toward the inhabitants of all other English 
counties, regarded the denizens of Devon, the habitants 
of Hants, as “belonging” to England. Cornwall was 
still the Duchy, not England, to Miss Trevider. 

She was gazing serenely at the gentle landscape 
framed by the old grey stone edges of the windows 
when the maid returned, bringing the mustard and 
the morning paper. 

Miss Felicity was a sociable and affectionate soul 
by nature, and she was lonely. She longed to open 
the paper for companionship, but self-control and 
habit forbade it. She ate when she ate and read 
when she read. Even the best regulated souls, 
14 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


15 


however, know the secret joy of compromise, so she 
felt it no infringement on the conventions of her 
customs to lay the paper in such a manner that the 
back page was visible to a roving eye. The back page 
with the pictorial section. 

Miss Felicity’s eye roved. The wandering, des¬ 
ultory gaze suddenly became riveted, then electrified 
with interest. She stared fixedly, with dilated eyes, 
upon the reproduction of a photograph of a clean¬ 
shaven, lean-cheeked, frank-eyed, well-featured young 
man. Quickly her eyes transferred themselves to the 
caption beneath. It ran: 

“Who is he? He was found in Euston Road yes¬ 
terday afternoon suffering from loss of memory. The 
police wish to establish his identity.” 

The little spinster, in her excitement, broke the habit 
of a lifetime. Forgetting her breakfast, she tremblingly 
opened the paper, her eyes scanning the inner sheets 
in search of further details of the man of mystery. 
After much gleaning she detected, in an obscure corner 
of the journal, the following item: 

“Man With Lost Memory.—There is now at the 
Tottenham Court Road Police Station a young man 
of about twenty-seven years of age, suffering from 
malnutrition and loss of memory. He is six feet 
two inches in height, of fair, pale complexion, brown 
hair, and brown eyes. When found he was wearing a 
gray tweed suit, a dove-coloured soft felt hat, black 
shoes, and a blue shirt of good quality, but devoid of a 
maker’s mark. There were no personal or identifying 
articles found upon him, and only twopence in change, 
which, in view of his well-dressed appearance, suggests, 
according to the theory of the police, that he may have 
been the victim of robbery and possibly of violence.” 

Miss Felicity, her toast and marmalade unfinished, 
rose and pulled the old-fashioned silk bell cord. 


i6 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


The young maid reappeared. 

“Alice,” said her mistress in the quavering tones of 
unwonted excitement, “ask Paynter to come to me 
at once.” 

The servant retired, imbued with a contagion of 
excitement over she knew not what. She had never 
before heard her little mistress speak with such lack 
of deliberation. 

Paynter, the old housekeeper, bustled in, expectancy 
of the unusual writ large on her ruddy countenance. 
She was silently confronted by the picture entitled 
“Who Is He?” She stared, speechless. 

“Paynter,” said Miss Felicity, with unaccustomed 
breathlessness, “does that remind you of any one?” 

Paynter, who had had too busy and humble a youth 
to learn reading and writing, could make neither head 
nor tail of the words printed below the picture, so she 
confined her concentration entirely upon the face itself. 

“It certainly do, ma’m,” she ventured at last, 
“an* beggin’ your pardon for mentionin’ it, but it 
looks to me as if it belonged to be a picture of the 
young master, ma’m.” 

“Oh, Paynter!” gasped Miss Felicity. “Do you 
really think so? Look again. Aren’t the ears too 
small—isn’t the face rather too thin—the eyes a trifle 
farther apart?” 

“There may be points,” hesitated the old house¬ 
keeper. “I can’t say exactly. It’s six years since 
I’ve seen ’e, you know, ma’m, but it fair give me a turn 
for the moment when I see it, it be so like ’e that last 
day when-” 

“That will do, Paynter,” interrupted her mistress, 
with dignity. She stared before her with unfocused 
vision for some moments, then turned towards her 
servant with a soft helplessness. 

“Paynter, I’m sorely perplexed. I don’t know what 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


17 

to do. Look again,” she pleaded. “Look at it 
upside down and tell me your honest opinion.” 

The old servant took the paper and reversed it. 

“It do be lookin’ lovely this way, ma’m,” she de¬ 
clared. “As pretty a picture of Mr. Monty as you’ve 
a mind to see—older, but ’e to the life.” 

“Paynter,” said Miss Felicity solemnly, “I’m con¬ 
vinced. I’m going on a journey.” 

“Never, ma’m!” cried Paynter. “Lord, Miss 
Felicity, ’ee haven’t been out of Cornwall since— 
since-” 

“Tell Sam to go down to the village and find out 
from the postmistress at what time I can catch the 
Cornish Riviera at St. Erth. I’m going to London, 
Paynter.” These last words were spoken with the 
impressiveness with which one might announce, “I’m 
going to die.” 

“Don’t stare,” commanded the little lady; “do as 
I tell you, and hurry. And—one moment, Paynter— 
not a word to the other servants of what I have shown 
you.” 

The old housekeeper drew herself up proudly. 

“That’s understood, ma’m. It’s just between we. 
But, Miss Felicity”—Paynter’s tone became curiously 
dictatorial—“if you be goin’ to London, us be going 
together. Haven’t I took care of ’ee all yer life? 
Yes’m, I be goin’, and that’s settled. I’d rather be 
stirrin’ than settin’. I couldn’t set here and think 
on ’ee adrift in London. No, ma’m, it ain’t no use 
talking. I be goin’, too.” Paynter, having delivered 
herself of her decision, sailed from the room with the 
majesty of a barque. 

Miss Felicity took up the paper from the table and 
gazed tenderly at the face of our friend, Jerry Middle- 
ton, as she murmured brokenly: 

“My poor dear Monty!” 


CHAPTER III 


After his demobilization from the Legion Etrangbre 
Jerry Middleton had made his way across the Channel, 
drawn to England by the call of blood, for, though a 
citizen of America by birth, a soldier of France by 
oath of allegiance, Jerry felt himself English—English 
by right of an English father. 

He had chosen an unfortunate time to seek his 
fortune in the land of his paternal ancestors, for 
England was then struggling with her seemingly 
unsolvable problem of how to find sufficient employ¬ 
ment for her own demobilized officers and men. 
Stories of houseless and jobless heroes filled the daily 
journals. 

When, after months of bitter failure and ever- 
increasing hardships and ever-decreasing funds, Jerry 
had finally faced actual foodlessness, he spent a day 
soberly marshalling facts against fancy, the realities 
of the situation against visions of hope, and had 
asked himself squarely, “What’s to be done?” Six 
months earlier he would have answered that question 
by the succinct reply, “Go to work.” He had, 
however, been forced to the consciousness that the 
most sincere desire in the world to work would not 
and could not magically produce the opportunity. 
It was in the middle of the night—when fantastic 
thoughts are abroad in the ether—that the fantastic 
solution of his difficulty came to him. At first he 
laughed aloud at the brazen American gall of the 
18 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


19 

thing, as he termed it, and then its very cheekiness 
began to lend the idea an allure. 

“After all,” he argued, “it’s not actually criminal— 
not like sandbagging a millionaire or looting the 
poor-box. At its worst it would be only playing a 
part—carrying out a ruse for time.” The object of 
the game would be temporarily to procure free food 
and lodging, until he got back his physical strength. 
Then he could go forth again to battle with existence. 

“Anybody with an ounce of theatrical ability 
could get away with it,” he declared to himself. “It 
needs only a little cleverness, plenty of ‘bull/ constant 
alertness to avoid the pitfalls of reminiscence—and 
nerve, brass-headed nerve. Pretend lost memory! 
—why, the thing ought to be as simple as falling off the 
roof of a skyscraper! 

“Of course,” he had assured himself, “if it begins, 
at any hour, to wax serious, or assume disagreeable 
expression, all Fve got to do is to suddenly and 
miraculously recover my temporarily lost and strayed 
memory and start all over again, the better for my 
physical and mental rest—to say nothing of the food 
obtained at the expense of the British public.” 

All these thoughts recurred to Jerry as he lay in 
the Tottenham Court Road Police Station the morn¬ 
ing after his adventure on Euston Road. What the 
ultimate outcome of his histrionic performance would 
be was of course now in the hands of the gods. 

On the whole, he had not had a dull time. The 
doctor who had inspected him the night before had 
been rather tiresome, ordering that the stomach of 
the unknown was, under no considerations, to be over¬ 
taxed—just when Jerry began to realize how raven¬ 
ously hungry he was. 

On the doctor’s return that morning, accompanied 
by a confrere, he had been less tiresome, but more 


20 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


disturbing. The two medical wiseacres had put him 
through various silly stunts—made him place the 
tips of his fingers slowly together and then talked 
learnedly in words of three syllables. The only term 
intelligible to Jerry’s ears had been the word “co¬ 
ordination.” They had made him most uncomfortable 
by performances with an electric torch held close to 
his eyes, while they discussed the reflex action of the 
pupils. An examination of his skull and the discovery 
of a small scar, caused by a splinter of shell, called 
forth talk of “possible pressure.” Jerry became 
genuinely alarmed when he heard doctor number one 
talk about removing him to a hospital and of keeping 
him under observation for some days before they 
began to experiment. 

“Experiment!” exclaimed Jerry inwardly. “Not on 
your life. I’ll not have anybody slicing open my 
precious skull sapping for a lost memory.” 

Throughout the medical examination Jerry had 
remained apparently indifferent, and to all questions 
gave such idiotically stupid replies as to make him 
ashamed of himself. 

The physicians retired, murmuring: “Undoubted 
case of shell-shock.” 

Before afternoon Jerry found himself staggered by 
the evidence of the great number of missing men in 
London. Five people of various social rank had 
called to inspect him. But he was nobody’s sought-for 
darling. At noon a woman had arrived and explained 
that she had expected to find a lost husband, aged 
fifty-two. 

“Golly!” thought Jerry. “The photograph they 
took of me yesterday afternoon must have been a 
bear if this old party thought she might find in me 
her missing link.” 

The most diverting hour he had spent had been 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


21 


with a little lost kiddie the matron had brought in to 
see him. When questioned, the little chap would only 
repeat over and over: “Went to walk in Wegent’s 
Park wif Tommy. Tommy said he’d show me ePphunts 
—den he wunned away.” This autobiographical 
effort was invariably concluded by the chorus-dirge 
of: “I want my mummy!” 

In his attempt to be interesting and diverting for 
the benefit of the lost boy, Jerry almost came his first 
cropper—just catching himself in time as he was on 
the verge of a reminiscence beginning: “When I was 
a little boy ...” 

As the child was led out of the door Jerry heard a 
policeman in the corridor saying to the matron: 

“Another claimant for the young toff what’s hoff ’is 
crumpet.” 

Jerry had grown so accustomed to claimants by now, 
he felt but little thrill over the prospect of a new¬ 
comer. His indifference, however, was quickened to 
intense interest by the sudden apparition before him 
of a fluttery little creature of the most perfect early 
Victorian type. The old lady, tiptoeing nervously, 
came forward, followed by a heavy-footed, large, 
red-cheeked, jolly person adorned in a be-feathered 
black hat and a be-bugled black cape. At sight of 
Jerry the jolly person almost eclipsed her face by hasty 
dabs at her eyes with a large pocket-handkerchief. 

With hesitating steps, and much evident trembling, 
the little old lady fluttered to Jerry’s side, her whole 
heart glowing in her eyes. Involuntarily he held out 
a hand and found it clasped in two quivering ones as 
the dear little soul sank to her knees beside him, cry¬ 
ing: “Oh Monty! Monty dear!” 

“Good Lord!” thought Jerry. “I’ll be blowed. 
Never in my wildest Wild West schemes had I ever 
thought of being adopted by any one, but how am I 


22 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


going to resist this bird-like angel? She’ll get my 
goat. Damned if she won’t. I can’t resist her—I 
feel it—I know it.” 

“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry/’ was all he could 
think of to say aloud. 

The tear-stained little wrinkled face with its big 
appealing innocent eyes was lifted as the quivering 
lips framed the words: 

“Don’t you remember me, Monty dear? Don’t you 
remember your Aunt Felicity?” 

“Aunt Felicity,” thought Jerry ecstatically. “Oh, 
joy of joys! what a pippin of a name.” 

“Only wish I did—wish to Heaven I could, but 
I really and honestly don’t, you know. All out of 
luck. Can’t keep anything in my bean for five minutes. 
Nobody home!” 

American slang being as unintelligible to his audi¬ 
ence as Sanscrit, the last sentence uttered by Jerry 
seemed to Miss Felicity and Paynter like the ravings 
of a lunatic. 

“Bean! Home!” echoed Miss Felicity brokenly. 

“Poor laddie!” sympathized the jolly fat person, 
who stood with folded hands behind the little kneeling 
figure. 

“Can you remember how to read, dear?” asked the 
perfect example of early Victorian. 

“Don’t know really,” said Jerry. “Nobody’s 
thought to invite me to have a try.” 

The little creature rose to her feet, took a news¬ 
paper from her black silk reticule, opened it, and 
handed it to Jerry. 

By mere chance the first thing that met his eye 
was: 


“Newmarket Selections” 


He read aloud: 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


23 


“The first October meeting which convenes to-day 
promises some interesting racing. For the opening 
day my selections are: 

1.30—Wildfire 
2.00—Bonaventure. . . 

He had got only so far when he felt an electric 
element in the air, and raised his eyes from the sheet 
to witness a lightning exchange of glances between 
“Aunt Felicity” and the ruddy person. He also 
noticed that the cheeks of his would-be aunt had 
grown perceptibly pale, and that the plump person 
was slowly nodding her head with a smug expression 
of “What did I tell you?” 

The fiuttery little lady then fluttered over to the 
matron (who had stood silently by, during the enact¬ 
ment of the foregoing scene) and said: 

“I now feel certain it is he—there is no longer any 
doubt whatever in my mind as to the identity of the 
poor boy. He is without the shadow of a question 
my nephew, Norman Montagu Trevider.” 

“Norman Montagu Trevider!” gasped Jerry 
Middleton inwardly. “Great guns! what am I to 
do? It would be like murdering women and children 
to deceive this dear old thing, but can I prove I’m 
not her blossoming nectarine of a nephew without 
giving away the whole show? Well I swan! I have 
got myself into a sacred mess. Feel perfectly pie¬ 
eyed.” 

He was in the midst of the greatest mental panic 
he had ever experienced when he felt two arms steal 
round his neck and a lavender-scented, soft, wrinkled 
cheek press against his own. 

All his loneliness, his homelessness, his unloved- 


.24 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


ness, surged over him; all his hitherto unrealized 
yearning for companionship, home, love, crested his 
thoughts, as, curiously enough, a long-forgotten 
fragment of Byron came winging into his memory: 

“The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds some hospitable hearth. . . 

He realized the “hospitable hearth” which these 
encircling arms epitomized, and his heart ached home- 
sickly for the love embodied in the caressing cheek 
against his. He felt himself wavering, weakening. 
To the last cry of his conscience he said, “Shut up,” 
and, lifting his own arms, placed them gently, rever¬ 
ently, around the tiny frail body of “Aunt Felicity.” 

“I knew she’d get me—I knew it. Here goes 
nothing!” thought Jerry, as with a delicious, irre¬ 
sponsible sensation of intoxication he declared to 
himself he had but capitulated to the inevitable—his 
conscience thereupon adroitly shifting all burden of 
responsibility upon the Atlas shoulders of Fate. 

And who can say whether he was wrong or right in 
feeling himself but a pawn in the great hand of some 
unknown player? Mark Twain has said that the first 
impulse of the first atom decided what each of us 
should be doing at this particular moment. According 
to this theory, Jerry Middleton was but helplessly 
carrying out the design ordained by a whimsical first 
atom. 


CHAPTER IV 


It was the imposing individual whom Miss Trevider 
spoke of as “dear Sir Wilfred” who arranged all the 
formalities and manipulated the red-tape incident to 
the establishment of her claim of relationship to that 
American soldier of fortune known to himself and to 
us as Jerry Middleton. 

It was also this same Sir Wilfred who had arrived 
at the conservative old-fashioned hotel—dear to the 
hearts of provincials—to announce to Miss Trevider 
that after much telegraphing and trouble he had at 
last succeeded in running Wiggs to earth. By what 
seemed to Miss Felicity a special grace of Providence, 
Wiggs had been found to be unemployed at the 
moment. He had expressed himself by wire as avail¬ 
able, and delighted to enter again the service of his 
former young master. 

“Wiggs was—as indeed we all were—devoted to 
Monty,” Miss Felicity reminded Sir Wilfred, “and he 
may perhaps be of great help in stirring up memories 
of the past in the poor boy’s clouded mind.” 

“And I’ve sent a wire to Celia,” said Sir Wilfred, 
with a sonorous clearing of the throat. “She will 
share in your great relief and happiness, Miss Trevider, 
and will, I’m sure, want to be among the first to 
welcome the wanderer home.” 

“You have been most thoughtful about every¬ 
thing, dear Sir Wilfred,” murmured Miss Felicity. 
“What I would ever have done without you, I don’t 
know. This thing has indeed made me realize what a 
25 


26 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


poor, helpless creature a woman is, when faced with 
anything outside her own little realm of home. How 
could I have ever proved that I am his aunt without 
your wise assistance?” 

Sir Wilfred protested, but preened himself with 
masculine pride and sat a trifle more uprightly. 

“And what of your interview with him—with 
Monty?” queried the little lady. “Did he give any 
evidences of recognition?” 

“None whatever,” said Sir Wilfred, with rather an 
air of relief, mentally avoiding a sharp memory of a 
none too pleasant half-hour spent with young Trevider 
six years earlier, just indeed before that young man 
had decamped for parts unknown. 

“But you feel sure I am right—that there is no 
doubt of his identity?” asked Miss Felicity anxiously. 
“Certainly, my dear lady, certainly, no doubt 
whatever. Only the changes which six years would 
naturally produce—older, maturer, and, let us hope, 
steadier. I base great hopes on his return to Cornwall 
and all his old surroundings—great hopes. Rest and 
time will, I am sure, restore everything—everything to 
its old footing,” he concluded, with significance. 

When the refound Wiggs was eventually brought 
into the presence of Jerry Middleton (who had removed 
from the Tottenham Court Road Police Station to the 
hotel), that mystified individual, not having the re¬ 
motest idea of Wiggs’ status, had wrung his hand 
warmly and said he hoped he found himself well. 
Wiggs was quite overcome. He had remained only a 
brief time with Jerry, having many vital things to 
accomplish in the forty-eight hours before the day on 
which he was to accompany his master to Cornwall. 

Jerry wondered who under the sun this newcomer 
could be, but on Wiggs producing a tape measure and 
silently making notes of the various dimensions of 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 27 

Jerry’s figure, he decided that the reserved stranger 
must be an emissary of the police. He supposed these 
details of his person were to adorn the Rogues’ Gallery. 

When, on the morning of his departure for Cornwall 
with his new aunt, Jerry found Wiggs accompanying 
them to Paddington, he got the man aside while 
waiting for the Riviera and said: 

“Say, look here, what the devil are you, anyway? 
Are you a detective or a sort of keeper—hired to 
watch me and that sort of thing, you know?” 

“Not in the least, sir,” protested the amazed and 
wounded Wiggs. “I was formerly by way of being, 
so to speak, your batman—valeted you, sir, you know.” 

“Good Lord!” was Jerry’s cryptic reply. 

Jerry hadn’t the foggiest notion of what a valet’s 
duties might be, but he feared the worst. Visions of 
having to use personal violence to discourage Wiggs’s 
efforts to comb one’s hair and sponge one in the bath 
flitted before him. Melancholy settled like a pall, 
and not even the departure in a first-class carriage— 
the first Jerry had ever travelled in—or Miss Felicity’s 
sweet efforts to make him comfortable with a pillow 
purchased especially for the occasion, could lift the 
gloom from a vista down valeted days and nights. 

“I’ll have to come to, just to avoid Wiggs,” thought 
Jerry. 

Miss Felicity, noticing her supposed nephew’s look 
of gloom, tried to divert him by drawing his attention 
to the marginal portions of London through which the 
train was now speeding. She kept wondering to 
herself if the sight of some familar spot—the river 
at Maidenhead, for instance—might not rouse the 
dormant memory. 

Jerry remained silent and preoccupied. He was 
just wondering gloomily if Wiggs would be wanting 
to chirop one’s feet and use a powder-puff on one’s 


28 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


back, when Mis Felicity’s self-restraint broke bounds 
as they passed through Reading. 

“Doesn’t this make you feel at home, Monty dear?” 
she queried in her bird-like tone. “Don’t you re¬ 
member Huntley and Palmer’s biscuits?” 

“ ’Fraid not,” sighed Jerry, who felt himself growing 
self-conscious as he looked up to find three sets of 
eyes fastened on him with individual and collective 
hopefulness. The expression of disappointment in 
Miss Felicity’s eyes was so poignant, Jerry felt like a 
brute, and forthwith determined to pretend a recogni¬ 
tion of something soon, just to please the tender¬ 
hearted little lady. So it came to pass, as the train 
sped through Newbury, Jerry sat up suddenly, and 
with a well-feigned sparkle of interest in his eyes and 
true histrionic effect of voice cried out, “I’ll be 
blowed!” 

“Did you speak, dear?” asked Miss Felicity. 

“By golly!” panted Jerry. “It’s queer, but-” 

He paused and stared out of the window. “It is 
queer,” he continued; “but I somehow feel I’ve seen 
this place before.” 

A sharp cry of pain from Miss Felicity brought 
Jerry’s eyes abruptly from their scrutiny of Newbury. 
To his utter bewilderment he beheld his new aunt 
dissolved in tears behind her wee handkercief, 
while on Paynter’s round face was a look of grim 
disapproval. 

Wiggs coughed nervously and warningly, and broke 
the tension of the moment by a suggestion that perhaps 
Mr. Trevider would like to retire to a smoking com¬ 
partment for a cigarette. 

Jerry’s admiration of Wiggs at that moment knew 
no bounds. Without further urging he sped from the 
carriage with a glance at Wiggs which clearly signified 
“Follow me.” “Well, I’ll be darned,” began Jerry 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


29 

as soon as they were out of earshot of Miss Felicity. 
“Now what the devil have I done?” 

“Most unfortunate, sir—most unfortunate,” sighed 
Wiggs. “Quite upset the mistress.” 

“What the deuce are you talking about?” snapped 
Jerry. 

“Most unfortunate your recognition having occurred 
just at that particular spot, sir. Stirred up most 
painful memories for your poor aunt, sir.” 

“And why the blazes can’t I recognize Newbury 
if I want to? What’s wrong with Newbury? Isn’t 
it a perfectly good place for a sane man to remember?” 

“Well, sir, you see-” hesitated Wiggs. 

“Out with it—if it’s a disreputable hole, there’s no 
sense in keeping it from me.” 

“Well, sir, you see, that's where it happened.” 

“Where what happened?” 

“Where you dropped the thousand that caused all 
the trouble. ...” 

“I dropped a thousand! I had a thousand pounds 
to drop! Wiggs, you flatter me.” Jerry gave a 
wry smile. 

“Yes, sir, you did; and, you see it gave Miss 
Trevider a bit of a turn when she found it out, and 
then there were scenes, and Sir Wilfred Boughton- 

Leigh had to speak to you—and—and-” Wiggs 

suddenly became abashed by his own unwonted lack 
of reserve, and lapsed into silence. 

“Go on,” commanded Jerry. “I guess I have a 
perfect right to hear the sob stuff of my own past, if 
any one has. Go on, I tell you.” 

“Well, sir, you see you were a very high-spirited 
young man, and you—well, sir, you see you were very 
indignant and lost your temper, so to speak, and after 
high words with your aunt and Sir Wilfred, you walked 
out of the house. That, sir, is all—all until your 



30 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


unexpected return in this—begging your pardon— 
this sad state of forgetfulness.” 

“Look here, Wiggs,” said Jerry. “Do a little for¬ 
getting yourself. Forget that you are my servant 
and talk to me as man to man. Was I a goddam 
stinker?” 

“Heaven forbid, sir!” defended Wiggs loyally. 
“A gay young blood, sir, certainly, and over-fond of 
the horses and cards, but a true Trevider and all that 
was generous and sporting. That was what made our 

loss of you so—so—well, sir, so-” Wiggs was still 

struggling to find a suitably strong yet respectfully 
restrained term, when Jerry broke in abruptly with, 
“Whose thousand was it I lost?” 

“Why, your aunt’s, sir, to be sure. That is, 
you had nothing beyond the allowance she made 
you.” 

“Well, I’ll be-” Jerry gave a low whistle. “Do 

you mean to say that after that, the dear lady is so 
overjoyed at having me back?” 

“It’s a way the ladies have, sir,” ejaculated Wiggs, 
with a sigh of philosophic resignation. 

Silence reigned for a minute, then Wiggs, suddenly 
remembering something, felt tentatively in a hip 
pocket. 

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Monty, but I had 
thought that perhaps you might be feeling the need 
of a little refreshment on the journey, so I took the 
liberty of having this flask filled.” 

Jerry gazed at Wiggs with positive admiration. 
After all, if a valet could forestall all one’s needs and 
desires like this—well, the future didn’t look so black 
after all. 

Wiggs also produced from an overcoat pocket a small 
bottle of soda and a collapsible drinking-cup. 




FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


3i 

Jerry lifted his drink with the silent toast of: 
“Aunt Felicity, God bless her!” 

When he had finished he said aloud: “Help your¬ 
self, Wiggs.” 

“Oh! thanks, sir,” said Wiggs, smiling, adding: 
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, I’m glad to see you 
haven’t changed much.” 

Arrived eventually at Trewarthenith (pronounced 
Trewenith), Jerry got the impression that it must be 
the modest station of some vast metropolis, so great 
was the crowd there assembled. The romantic news 
of the return of the long-lost young master of 
“Tolvean” had, of course, gone abroad, and all the 
tenantry of both the Trevider and the Boughten- 
Leigh estates, as well as villagers and neighbouring 
farmers, had flocked to meet the train. 

On all sides the returning hero was being discussed 
in the Cornish fashion. “Poor laddie! They say 
’e’s hurted ’is head.” . . . “Yes, ’is wits be gone 
abroad.” . . . “ ’E must ’ave been bra’ly scowed by 
a blow.” . . . “Yes, a scat on the skull, ’ee may be 
sure. ...” 

Many had seen the photograph entitled, “Who is 
he?” and, of course, each individual now claimed 
to have realized the true identity of the original 
the moment they had set eyes on. the picture. 
Trewarthenith had not experienced such an excite¬ 
ment for decades. Only the diplomatic protests of 
Celia Boughton-Leigh had restrained the villagers 
from welcoming the young master with the town band. 

Jerry felt horribly shy as he stepped from the 
train and realized himself the target of stares from 
all eyes. 

“Give them a greeting, dear,” whispered Miss 
Felicity. “They will be expecting it.” 


32 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Jerry turned, lifted his hat generally, bowed all- 
embracingly, and smiled perfunctorily, feeling for the 
first time in his life as if he were royalty, or a potentate 
of sorts. 

After a warm welcome from the old coachman he 
sat himself beside the flushed and excited Miss Felicity 
and drove off amid a volley of cheers from the no- 
longer-to-be-restrained throng. 

Aunt Felicity hoped at every moment that the 
sight of some old familiar spot would reawaken her 
nephew’s dormant faculties. As the carriage reached 
the summit of the first hill she cried: “Look, dear, 
don’t you remember?—there’s Godrevy lighthouse in 
the distance, and look over this side—there’s your old 
favourite, Trencrom.” 

Jerry stared at the picturesque line of the hill, which 
he now beheld for the first time; the terrible falsity 
of his position suddenly dawned upon him. He 
turned his eyes miserably towards the blue line of sea 
and the rock on which stood Godrevy, then his eyes 
fell on those of the little old lady beside him, and a 
flush surcharged his cheeks as he applied to himself 
the ugly word “impostor.” 

Miss Felicity attributed the misery of his eyes and 
the flush to the chaos she had produced in the poor 
clouded brain by her premature attempts to force 
recollection, and mentally admonished herself, deter¬ 
mining to point out no further landmarks. 

Jerry on his side admonished his conscience to 
“shut up,” adding inwardly: “If I begin to take 
myself too seriously and let it get in on me, I’ll spoil 
everything. I’ve got to play the game, now I’ve 
taken the plunge.” He diverted himself by looking 
about on the really lovely moorland country, tinted like 
an old Persian rug with red and yellow bracken and 
splotches of purple heather. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


33 

“Ill say it’s fine, Aunt Felicity,” he declared. 
“Bully country. I’m as happy as a three-year-old.” 

Miss Felicity pressed his hand tenderly. 

There was a sound of hoofs on the road behind them 
and a young woman dashed up, reining in beside the 
carriage. 

“Couldn’t resist overtaking you, Miss Felicity,” she 
cried, and reaching down a hand to Jerry, said: 
“Welcome home, Monty. Awfully jolly to see you 
again.” 

Jerry tried to look intelligent as he wondered who 
under heaven this cheery creature was. 

Miss Felicity saved the moment by saying: “We 
are so glad to see you, Celia dear. Your father has 
been most kind to Monty and me in town. I don’t 
know what I would have done without him. I’m sure 
it would add to the pleasure of Monty’s first night at 
home if you could come over to dinner with us this 
evening.” 

Thanks to Miss Felicity, Jerry was now able to put 
two and two together, and he quickly urged: 

“Yes, do by all means,” and added, “I’ll tell the 
world Sir Wilfred was a corker!” Celia looked a 
little surprised, but with a “See you later” and a gay 
wave of the hand she reversed her horse and the clatter 
of hoofs receded in the distance. 

“Perfect bear, isn’t she?” ejaculated Jerry. 

“Bear?” murmured Miss Felicity in distressed 
tones. “I thought you liked Celia, dear. You used 
to admire her very much—very.” 

“I still do,” said Jerry. T mean she gets my goat.” 

“Bear—goat?” Miss Felicity sighed. “Poor boy!” 
She patted his hand tenderly, as one does the hand of 
the ill, and hoped he’d not begin to rave before they 
got home and begin to talk about snakes. 

Jerry meanwhile wondered just how much young 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


34 

Trevider had admired Celia and what their relations 
had been. He must interrogate Wiggs. While he 
was still pondering the subject the carriage turned 
into a dignified old gateway, passed an ivy-covered, 
picturesque lodge and proceeded slowly up a winding 
drive through wonderful, century-old trees whose 
roots were hidden by a thick growth of rhododendron. 
The slated roof and gables of a large rambling old 
grey house showed in the distance through the trees. 

“It all seems like a dream!” Jerry involuntarily 
exclaimed. 

Aunt Felicity trembled with joy. “Oh, does it, 
dear? I’m so glad—so glad. It means that every¬ 
thing will soon seem real, and you’ll get rid of all the 
goats and bears. Here we are. Home!” 

“Home!” repeated Jerry mechanically, as he stared 
at the charming old-world house confronting them. 
He in turn found himself trembling—trembling with 
excitement and a horrid realization of the incredible 
impudence of his presence there. Here was he, an 
American stranger, about to enter this wonderful old 
English home of tradition and proud lineage, prob¬ 
ably as its future heir, he who a week earlier had 
sat in the shabby rear-room of a London lodging- 
house, staring at the soiled wallpaper and wondering 
where he would get his next meal. . . . 

“Well,” thought Jerry, “I can’t write, but, by golly, 
I’m sure living fiction all right!” 

He was brought back to the moment by the sweet 
voice of Miss Felicity saying, as she led him through 
the hall door, held open by a low-bowing, radiant¬ 
faced old man-servant, “Welcome home, welcome 
back, my dear, dear boy!” 

She drew him into the drawing-room. Putting her 
arms around his neck, she tiptoed and kissed him, as 
tears of joy ran down her cheeks. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


35 


Jerry gathered the little lady in his arms and held 
her close to him with a sudden birth of genuine affec¬ 
tion, and an agony of conscience. “God help me, 
Aunt Felicity!” he murmured brokenly. “I’ll make 
all this up to you somehow—darned if I don’t 1” 


CHAPTER V 


The incredibility of life must have impressed any 
one who has lived beyond the age of thirty, an 
incredibility which makes literary presentations, for 
those who have lived Life, mere pallid expurgated 
renditions of reality. 

What author could have imagined the pathos, horror, 
and heroism coincident with the sinking of the 
Titanic? In all literature there is nothing which 
grips the throat and heart as does the memory of that 
ship’s band. The human race must be for ever 
haunted by the tones of “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” 
played as the water crept ever upward, upward—over 
knees, over waistline, until it reached at last the hearts 
of those supernal musicians. 

What author could have surmised the horrors, 
splendours, sacrifices, revealed by the recent World 
War? The pen of writers became for ever dwarfed 
by deeds which were done hour after hour in France— 
deeds too big and beautiful for adequate depiction 
by any human genius. 

The setting of the everyday sun, the ineffable 
expression of love in the eyes of a woman, the mystery 
of moonlight on snow. . . . These natural, familiar 
miracles bring to every artist a tragic realization of the 
inadequateness, the paucity, of paint, music, and words. 

The melodramatic surprises of life, its startling 
coincidences, its rapturous joys, its unendurable 
sorrows, its irremediable losses, are all incredible— 
too incredible to be good art. 

36 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


37 


The incredibility of life became the preoccupation 
of Jerry Middleton from the moment he met Miss 
Felicity Trevider. The ineradicableness of any act of 
life also impressed itself upon his consciousness. 
When he had stepped out from the kerb on Euston 
Road he had really walked out upon the Highway of 
Chance. That first step had simultaneously set in 
motion those relentless natural laws which bind 
sequences to human action with an unbreakable chain. 

Albert Bigelow Paine once said, “No one can write 
a biography without becoming a fatalist.” 

As Jerry Middleton reviewed his autobiography, 
he felt there was nothing to fit it but fatalism. 

Fate, the prestidigitator, had juggled him deftly 
from the small, unpainted little wooden dwelling in 
South Carolina to the lichen-covered walls of this 
majestic old Cornish manor house. Uescamoteur 
had brought him via France and the horrors of war, 
London and the hardships of peace. Jerry had arro¬ 
gantly thought he had gone to France through his 
own furious impulse; he had thought he had walked 
out into Euston Road through his own inspirational 
recklessness. 

“Was it volitional impulse at all?” he now asked. 
Or rather was he but a helpless slave, driven, driven, 
driven, by the whiplash of some huge, conscienceless, 
calculating overseer? 

Twenty-five years earlier Jerry Middleton had been 
born in the little South Carolinian village of Ninety- 
Six, a village which could have been termed insignifi¬ 
cant had it not become historically notable as the home 
of Preston S. Brooks, the chastiser of Sumner. 

Jerry had come into the world three months after 
his father had departed from it. His father had been 
a mediocre, unsuccessful lawyer. He was a reticent 
man, who remained a mystery even to his wife, which 


38 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

shows that he must, after all, have had a cleverness 
of sorts. From rare reminiscences she learned he had 
been born of English parents, that he had been a 
wanderer in many lands, that he had known the far 
British colonies, and that there were bitter memories, 
best forgotten, associated with all these places. 

Undoubtedly well born and primarily accustomed to 
the ease and grace of life, he was irritated and in¬ 
furiated by the austerities coincident with failure and 
poverty. One could not begrudge him the luxurious 
restfulness of death. 

His wife was left almost penniless. She, however, 
promptly developed remarkable resourcefulness, turn¬ 
ing an artistic taste and a clever needle to practical 
ends. By “taking in sewing 7 ’—that dernier ressort 
of the destitute Southern gentlewoman—she had 
managed to support her child and herself, far more 
adequately, in fact, than her husband could have, 
by quoting Blackstone. 

Jerry, a happy-go-lucky boy, had accepted his 
mother’s support as a matter of course. The accus¬ 
tomed is seldom arresting. His earliest memory had 
been that of a bent-shouldered mother plying a needle 
which rose and fell with rhythmic regularity. It was 
when he was sixteen and about to enter the State 
University, that he saw for the first time—saw the 
tragedy, the laboriousness, the mute self-sacrifice 
symbolized by that tide-like needle. 

That needle was to put him through college. He’d 
be damned if it should! He wasn’t going to college. 
He was going to work. 

For four and a quarter subsequent years he had 
occupied a poorly paid position in the town bank. 
Showing no particular ability, he received no advance¬ 
ment. Then his mother died—died as unaffectedly 
as she had lived. Before his heart had recovered 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


39 


from that surprise and sorrow, his soul received its 
first great shock—a shock disassociated from his own 
personal affairs—the shock of that most monstrous of 
crimes, the sinking of the Lusitania. 

The sinking of the Lusitania was the turning-point 
of Jerry Middleton’s life. It inaugurated thought, 
impersonal thought. Self was forgotten in the vaster 
thought of humanity. The more he thought, the 
more he passionately yearned to hear a nation’s 
righteous cry demanding punishment, vengeance. 
Aghast at his country’s supine attitude, Jerry stood 
at his desk day after day, the ears of his entire being 
listening tensely for the call to arms. After a month 
during which the world had heard only the click of 
a typewriter in Washington, Jerry resigned his job, 
turned everything available into cash, got to New York, 
and sailed for France. 

The Legion Etrangere welcomed him, as it did all 
enraged, inspired, adventurous dare-devils from the 
four corners of an indignant world. Jerry fought for 
God and The Right under the French flag and dis¬ 
covered cosmopolite patriotism. 

Of the remainder of our hero’s story up to his arrival 
in Cornwall, we are sufficiently conversant for the pur¬ 
poses of this history. 

The outcome of his “Solution” had left him breath¬ 
less. Jerry wondered what would have happened had 
Miss Felicity not mistaken him for her lost nephew. 
Would he have been shifted to the workhouse, asylum, 
or gaol? 

From the first moment he had entered “Tolvean” 
he felt that a prolonged deception of Miss Felicity 
would be unendurable to him. Left alone in his bed¬ 
room, his conscience reached the acute stage of uncom¬ 
fortableness where he felt relief could be attained only 
by an immediate confession of everything. 


40 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


So obliterating were the pangs of conscience he failed 
to hear the soft pedalled entrance of Wiggs, and gave a 
nervous start as Wiggs spoke his name and suggested a 
bath and a rest for the hour which would elapse before 
it would be time to dress for dinner. Wiggs held a 
Chinese blue crepe dressing-gown which he had pro¬ 
cured from Heaven only knew where. 

As Jerry disrobed, a sudden sense of well-being sur¬ 
charged him. The luxurious surroundings, the cheery 
fire, the noiseless service of Wiggs, even the blue dress¬ 
ing-gown, all acted as emollients on a raw conscience. 
A soothing procrastination invaded his thoughts; his 
conscience became dormant. The bath finished, Jerry 
flung himself on the couch before the fire as he watched 
Wiggs’s activities about the room with the naive inter¬ 
est elicited by the unusual. 

“Did you say ‘dress’ a while ago, Wiggs? How can 
I rig up for dinner when I haven’t a thing to doll up 
in?” 

“Begging your pardon, sir,” replied Wiggs, with a 
deeply injured air, “but you surely could depend upon 
me not to overlook so important a matter as evening 
clothes. I am now preparing irons to give them a 
pressing, as I found them somewhat wrinkled on taking 
them out of the travelling-case.” 

“But,” gasped Jerry in stupefaction, “where in the 
blue blazes did you find any duds for me?” 

“Don’t you recall, sir, that I made a few measure¬ 
ments the first day I came to the hotel?” 

“Oh yes, so I do. But I confess I thought at the 
time you were an emissary of the police, and were 
merely taking notes of my special points of beauty for 
the edification of Scotland Yard.” 

“Jocose as ever, Mr. Monty!” Wiggs commented, 
with the condescending smile with which one might 
encourage a child. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


4i 


“But how did you magic the adornments into being?” 

“A visit to your old London tailor, sir—a comparison 
with former measurements, and the alterations made 
necessary by the natural changes brought about by the 
past six years. I requested especial haste in getting 
the several suits ready.” 

“Suits!” exclaimed Jerry, appalled by Wiggs’s effi¬ 
ciency. 

“Yes, sir. Under the peculiar circumstances of the 
case, I felt justified in taking the liberty of ordering 
what I considered necessary for your immediate needs, 
modelling my opinions on what I could recall of your 
former tastes. I have in hand only a morning-suit, 
riding things, and evening wear. As soon as you feel 
sufficiently recovered, sir, to trouble yourself about 
such matters, we will go seriously into the matter of 
your wardrobe.” 

“O Lord!” thought Jerry, “this is being valeted!” 
Aloud he said: 

“Wiggs, accept my heartfelt thanks for all your 
thoughtfulness.” He paused, and then added dramatic¬ 
ally: “I will reward you by an immediate promotion.” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Wiggs imperturbably. 

Jerry smiled. “You are forthwith appointed to the 
position of Chief of the Intelligence Bureau.” 

“Indeed, sir?” 

“Yes. You are to inform me upon all points concern¬ 
ing myself—past, present, and future. You will enter 
upon your new duties at once. Do you realize, Wiggs, 
I don’t even know my own nationality. I may be a 
Bolshevik, a Beluchistanee, or a Bolivian for all I 
know.” 

“Heaven forbid, sir! You are an American.” 

“As bad as that! Well, I suppose it can’t be helped. 
But how do I come to be American and there is my 
aunt, Cornish to the core?” 


42 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


“Your father, sir, Miss Trevider’s younger brother, 
went to the States early in life—went to a place called 
Virginia, and there married a Southern lady. I regret 
to say, sir, you are an orphan. Though the son of an 
English father, you are legally, through no fault of your 
own, an American subject.” 

“Citizen, Wiggs, citizen!” 

“Well, sir, citizen.” 

“Go on,” urged Jerry. 

“Your father, as I said, having died, you were, at 
Miss Trevider’s request, sent by your maternal grand¬ 
mother to England for your education. You see, sir, 

you would be the natural heir to the estate if-” 

Wiggs came to an abrupt halt. 

“Well if—what?” asked Jerry. 

“That, sir, is a subject which—well, sir, to put it 
briefly, I do not feel that I, as a servant, have a right 
to discuss intimate matters concerning the family 
affairs. I would be obliged if you would put any ques¬ 
tions regarding such subjects to your aunt.” 

“Quite right. I understand,” said Jerry. The serv¬ 
ant’s hesitation and mysterious air convinced Jerry 
that here was a family skeleton. “You were talking 
about my education.” 

“So I was, sir. You were sent to Wellington—very 
good school, Wellington. From there you went to 
Oxford. You had not yet finished college, sir, when— 
when it happened, that is, when the end came, so to 
speak, unexpectedly.” 

“Thank you, Wiggs. I see,” said Jerry. “That is 
about as much intelligence as I can stand from your 
department for the moment. You see my brain is still 
labelled ‘Empty. Undergoing repairs.’ ” 

Wiggs was about to retire when Jerry recalled him. 

“One moment, Wiggs. A little more information re- 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


43 


quired. Miss Boughton-Leigh. . . . Just what was my 
status there ?” 

“It would be difficult to say exactly, sir,” he tempo¬ 
rized. “I think, however, I may be so bold as to say it 
was supposed to be the hope of both Miss Trevider and 
Sir Wilfred Boughton-Leigh that you, as the probable 
heir of Tolvean, and Miss Boughton-Leigh, only daugh¬ 
ter and child of Sir Wilfred, and heiress of the adjoining 
estate, would—well, to put it frankly, sir, marry.” 

“Indeed! And where had things got to when I flew 
the coop?” 

“That, sir, I regret to say, I am unable to give you 
exact information upon. But, judging from appear¬ 
ances, I would have thought things were progressing 
encouragingly.” 

“Here endeth the first lesson,” said Jerry. “You can 
vamoose now, Wiggs.” 

“How shall I do it, sir?” asked the puzzled but willing 
Wiggs. 

“If you want to be entertaining you might try doing 
it on all-fours, but for comfort it would be best perhaps 
to conform to habit and retire on your two feet.” 

“Oh, sir!” said Wiggs, a light dawning upon him. 

“Say, Wiggs, did you ever have a hang-over?” Jerry 
called by way of postscript. 

“Can’t say that I have, sir. I know little about hang¬ 
ings—never having attended one, sir.” 

“Then there’s no use appealing to you for sym¬ 
pathy,” sighed Jerry. “I suppose you wouldn’t under¬ 
stand if I told you that all the information you’ve 
flooded me with has left me feeling perfectly pifficated.” 

“Afraid not, sir,” replied Wiggs, with a correct note 
of regret. Within, he inelegantly opined. “Balmy! 
Blooming case of shell-shock and no ruddy error!” 


CHAPTER VI 


Jerry entered the drawing-room. A photograph in 
a silver frame on a table was the first object which met 
his eye. It was a photograph of Montagu Trevider. 
That fact Jerry realized at first glance. He studied the 
face with startled interest. The photograph could 
easily have passed for an earlier one of himself. The 
likeness was indeed uncanny, an evidence of one of 
those freaks of nature by which amazingly similar hu¬ 
man beings are born of different parents. 

As he stood spellbound before this photographic proof 
of his startling resemblance to Monty Trevider, Jerry 
understood for the first time the very natural mistake 
made by Miss Felicity and others. Suddenly his atten¬ 
tion was distracted by the sound of voices in the hall. 
This is what he heard: 

“Have you sent word to Polly?” in a voice which he 
recognized to be that of Celia Boughton-Leigh. 

“Yes, I have cabled,” replied Miss Trevider. “But 
not a word of her is to be mentioned to Monty. The 
cable was your father’s suggestion. Sir Wilfred be¬ 
lieves if Monty is unexpectedly confronted with Polly, 
something will snap in his brain—don’t you see? I 
mean that the surprise may in a moment restore his 
memory. Alienists and nerve specialists—so your 
father tells me—are agreed that sudden shock or happy 
surprise are the most effective remedies in such cases.” 

“I see,” said Celia. “But how can you keep him 
from hearing Polly’s name? Some one is certain to 
44 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


45 

mention her. Even the servants might naturally do 
so.” 

“As for the servants, I can depend on Paynter. She 
will give instructions in the servants’ hall. And you, 
Celia, I thought you could arrange it where our friends 
are concerned. You could just let it be understood in 
the countryside that we don’t want to spoil the surprise 
of Polly’s return, or—well, anything that may occur to 
you.” 

Jerry felt like a cur. It was most uncomfortable to 
play the part of involuntary eavesdropper. Replacing 
the photograph on the table, he tiptoed to the extreme 
end of the large drawing-room and flopped into an arm¬ 
chair, assuming an expression of extreme blankness and 
stupidity. A moment later Miss Felicity and her guest 
entered. Jerry rose with a well-feigned start. The 
first look of apprehension in Miss Felicity’s eyes gave 
place to one of relief. 

Celia Boughton-Leigh approached, and instead of 
shaking hands, did what a man would have termed 
slapped him on the shoulder, as she said heartily, “Well, 
old thing! How are you?” 

Jerry was rather taken aback by this greeting, but 
the girl’s methods and manners were at least effectual 
in the breaking down of barriers. And Jerry had ac¬ 
tually been fearing he might be kissed 1 

“Topping,” he replied, priding himself on having 
achieved so un-American an adjective. 

“How about a spin to-morrow morning in old 
Charon?” she asked. “You see, he is still going strong 
in spite of tuberculosis of the respirator, and spavin in 
the gears. He can do everything but take hedges—has 
even nobly tried to. Will you come?” 

“Sure!” Jerry replied blithely. 

“Then I’ll jazz round for you about ten and we’ll get 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


46 

back—well, when we do. Doesn’t that sound like old 
times, Miss Felicity?” 

“It certainly does,” smiled Miss Felicity, as the but¬ 
ler entered to announce dinner. 

Jerry was assigned the seat at the head of the table 
facing Miss Trevider. He felt the psychological signifi¬ 
cance of the position, and a queer sense of being the 
head of the family came over him. 

The early part of the meal was difficult and inter¬ 
spersed with awkward conversational pauses. 

Celia suddenly broke a silence by exclaiming: “It’s 
all rot keeping up this unnatural strain. Fifty times 
I’ve been on the verge of saying, ‘Don’t you remember 
so and so, Monty?’ One simply can’t go on not re¬ 
ferring to the past. I’m going to run on low gear from 
this time forth and say anything that comes into my 
head. I’m sure you’re not so silly as to be sensitive 
about the thing, Monty. I rather suspect you are ab¬ 
surdly proud of your unique malady.” 

“Sure,” laughed Jerry, with relief. “I can’t see why 
we should feel as if we’re at a funeral and treat my 
departed memory as the late lamented. So fire away 
and say any old thing you like. If I don’t remember 
I’ll say so.” 

From that time the conversation rippled on unintel- 
lectually up to the after-dinner cigarettes which Celia 
and Jerry enjoyed together alone in the library. 

“Isn’t it just too thrilling,” said she, “not knowing 
what you’ve been doing, or what crimes you have com¬ 
mitted during all these mysterious years?” 

“I suppose it is,” he confessed. “Now that I come 
to think about it, I seem to have rather nasty twinges 
of conscience about, about—well, something, every once 
in a while.” 

“How lovely!” gushed Celia. “Why, you may have 
robbed banks, committed murder, or been a spy. . . . 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


47 


And I don’t suppose they could really hold you respon¬ 
sible for any of your crimes now. Oh, for a blow on 
the head! Then I could do all the dreadful things I’m 
constantly longing to. People would simply say, ‘Poor 
Celia, she’s been a bit queer ever since that awful acci¬ 
dent!’ ” 

“Let’s hope for the best to-morrow. Perhaps Charon 
will take a header,” suggested Jerry. 

“And bump your memory into place as it dislocates 
mine. I wonder if you fought she said abruptly. “I’d 
hate you if you’d been a slacker or a conchy. Have 
you got any scars?” 

“I believe the medical guys at the police station did 
discover some defacement of my belfry.” 

“Oh! let’s see,” cried Celia exuberantly. She seized 
his head and unceremoniously examined the scalp. 
“How thrilling! Here it is. Of course it is a shell 
splinter wound. I’m so glad. Oh, Monty!” she added, 
with disconcerting intensity as she smoothed his locks 
almost caressingly, “it’s so good to have you back. You 
don’t know how I missed you after you went away. Of 
course there was the war and France—I drove an am¬ 
bulance, you know—but the after-war stupidity nearly 
killed me. The past summer I’ve been bored to tears 
with only Mr. Coolie for tea and tennis. You do still 
like me, don’t you?” 

“Like you!” echoed Jerry in a tone implying the 
meagreness of the words. He inwardly prayed matters 
were not going to take a sentimental turn. 

At that moment Miss Felicity joined them, and Jerry 
heaved a sigh which was not interpreted as one of relief 
by Celia. 

Later on, as he walked home with her, taking the 
short-cut through the park and meadows, he carefully 
engineered the conversation away from sentimental 
channels by displaying a desire to hear details of Celia’s 


48 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

activities in France. She was not averse to telling 
them. 

While undoubtedly avoiding all intention of swank¬ 
ing, she nevertheless gave the impression of heroic af¬ 
fairs conducted with great efficiency. 

Jerry was deeply impressed, but not warmed. 

On his return he made a detour into the forest of the 
Tolvean park. It was magically beautiful with its elfin 
moonlit mystery. He stood still. Peace seemed to 
enter his troubled soul. It was more than the peace of 
a place of solitude, it was the immemorial thing that is 
England. A curious realization came to Jerry of that 
essence of stability, pride of race, fixed and noble ideals, 
and sense of responsibility which have made the Eng¬ 
lish estates what they are. 

All this wonderful place, all its peace, its permanence, 
its traditions, might be his for a lifetime, if the real 
heir did not return. It required only a continuance of 
pretence. It was a temptation, hang it all! 

In the pulsating silence he heard overhead the wee 
voice of a bird, complaining, as one disturbed in its 
sleep. A slight rustle in the leaves of the underbrush 
preceded the dart of a startled hare. 

“Invader!” the bird seemed to say. “Invader!” re¬ 
peated the scuttling hare. Even the night wind became 
accusative. 

An indescribable depression descended upon Jerry’s 
spirit. He found himself wondering where the real 
Montagu Trevider might be at this particular moment. 
Little did that wanderer dream of the invader who had 
taken his place as probable heir to all these fair acres 
—heir, too, if he chose, to the girl young Trevider had 
loved. 

Jerry left the wood and again found the meadow 
path. 

He tried to sum up the impression made upon him by 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


49 

Celia. A jolly enough girl, a good sort, companionable, 
but . . . Jerry had to confess in his heart to a differ¬ 
ent ideal, a liking for the more old-fashioned type— 
the clinging vine, which by its very helplessness made 
a man feel peculiarly virile and protecting. Celia, for¬ 
mer motor-ambulance driver in France, needed no 
man’s protection. 

Of course when one has never been in love it is 
futile to formulate theories. Life had a way of up¬ 
setting theories anyhow. Look at the astonishing 
people our friends married—often the very opposite of 
their proclaimed ideals. 

As Jerry neared the door of “Tolvean” there came 
back to his memory the conversation which had taken 
place in the hall before dinner—the conversation he 
had unwillingly heard. All other thoughts were quickly 
obliterated by the overwhelming wonder: “Who in the 
deuce is Polly?” 

Polly! He liked the name. It had a helpless, cuddly, 
lovable sound. He hoped Polly had not been to France. 
He hoped she had not become accustomed to horrible 
sights. He hoped she had never had to lift crumpled, 
gory wrecks of humanity. He hoped she had never 
sped over those hideous muddy French roads at night. 
“Golly!” thought Jerry, with frank disgust, “what 
queer guys men are. We admire heroism in women in 
the abstract; we glory in the magnificent deeds of the 
women who aren’t ours, but when it comes to rock- 
bottom truth we are just selfish hogs even when it 
comes to glory—want to do all the big star stunts our¬ 
selves and keep our own women soft and helpless— 
dazzle them by great masculine qualities which they 
must never hope to possess.” 

As he opened the door a mouse sped across the hall. 
Jerry smiled crookedly as he thought: “I hope to the 
Lord, Polly’ll be scared to death of mice!” 


CHAPTER VII 


A lighted candle awaited him on the hall table. In 
its dim light the unfamiliar surroundings took on a 
sentient ghostliness. 

Jerry glanced nervously around and upward. His 
eyes were met by another pair of eyes smiling down on 
him with a singularly engaging expression—an expres¬ 
sion which seemed to almost voice a welcoming greet¬ 
ing. He was gazing at the portrait of a boy in Eton 
suit. If it had not possessed the mellowness of tone, 
which time alone can give a painting, it might have been 
a portrait of Montagu Trevider at the age of, say, 
fifteen. 

It recalled to Jerry’s recollection a photograph of 
himself taken just before he had gone to work in the 
bank. There were the same laughing hazel eyes, the 
same high-bridged sensitive nose, the same quizzical 
tilt of the left eyebrow, the same dip of the hair in the 
centre of forehead. 

“Well,” commented Jerry to himself, “when Nature 
planned me out, she didn’t show much originality. 
Used some old model she’d grown dotty on and got the 
habit of. Just turned us out by the peck. Rummy 
stunt, all the same, and sort of takes the starch out of 
a fellow’s pride—makes him feel about as individual as 
a green pea.” 

Flanking the walls on both sides were other portraits 
—some almost obliterated by time, some fairly modern, 
all unmistakably good. Jerry glanced uneasily from 

50 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


5i 


one face to another, and somehow felt he was standing 
trial before a ghost jury. 

The eyes of an arrogant country squire seemed to 
demand an explanation of his presence there. A thin, 
disapproving dowager looked through him with a most 
disconcerting aloofness. Jerry had the uncomfortable 
sensation of having received a snub. 

It took actual courage to contemplate running that 
gauntlet of eyes—the eyes of the ancestors of the man 
whose place he had usurped—to reach the stairs at the 
far end of the hall. He glanced nervously back at the 
smiling eyes of the boy, who belonged to his own pea- 
in-the-pod type, and again felt that reassuring greeting 
which seemed about to slip over the brim of soft lips. 
Fortified, Jerry sped on tiptoes past the battery of 
critical and disapproving eyes. 

His subsequent stealthy movements up the stairway 
made him feel for all the world like a burglar—another 
ugly term which had a sinister appropriateness. “For, 
after all,” thought Jerry, “what am I doing if I’m not 
robbing the old and innocent? It’s a doggone dirty 
trick all round, and-” 

“Monty dear.” The soft voice of Miss Felicity 
broke in upon his self-accusations. 

Jerry raised unhappy eyes to find his adopting aunt 
standing at the head of the stairs. 

“I waited up for you, dear,” she said. “It’s so good 
to have you to wait up for. Come into my sitting-room 
for a few minutes.” 

She placed Jerry in the most comfortable chair and 
stuffed a pillow behind his back. 

“You mustn’t forget you are still something of an 
invalid.” She bustled happily around, getting a tum¬ 
bler and filling it from a saucepan which steamed on 
the hob. “Hot milk for you,” she purred. “It will 
make you sleep well.” 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


52 

“You mustn’t spoil me this way, Aunt Felicity,” pro¬ 
tested Jerry. “I’m not used to it—that is, I don’t 
believe I am. You are the one who must be looked 
after, and just how to do it is going to be my chief 
concern from now on.” 

Mis Felicity’s hand trembled with emotion and she 
almost spilt the milk. “Oh, Monty dear, you don’t 
know—no man can know how much a woman really 
needs—needs, well, just being looked after. Nobody 
knows how I’ve longed to have some one to lean on— 
lean heavily on. I don’t mean to criticize Providence, 
but I sometimes wonder if it was quite wise in making 
an old maid out of me. There’s something so reassur¬ 
ing just in the appearance of a man. It must be in the 
way his clothes are made—the trousers, I mean.” She 
blushed demurely. “They are clear cut and look ca¬ 
pable, so different from the indefiniteness and handi- 
cappingness of skirts. If I could have hired a man—a 
gentleman, of course—to travel with me, to frighten 
guards and waiters, I think I might have been a great 
traveller. I’ve wanted to see so many places, but I ask 
you frankly, can you see me jaunting over the Conti¬ 
nent, Africa, and Asia Minor, alone?” 

Jerry had to laugh at the unthinkableness of the 
vision, and shook his head negatively. 

“Don’t you see, dear, what it meant to me to see 
you sitting there to-night at the head of the table? 
It gave me such a sudden sense of assurance I could 
scarcely keep from bursting into tears, and before the 
butler.” 

“Why, you blessed old dear!” cried Jerry, jumping 
up and taking the glass from her. “Just sit right down 
in the chair and drink the milk yourself.” It was the 
only thing on earth he could think of doing for her at 
the moment, and he felt he must do something or die. 

“Now,” he said, as he in turn became the tucker of 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


53 


pillows, “that’s something like it.” He flung himself on 
the floor like a boy at her feet. “This, auntie, is a 
photogravure of how affairs are to stand from now on— 
you on the jewelled throne, I at your feet.” 

Miss Felicity, too overcome for words, mutely mo¬ 
tioned him to drink the milk. 

Jerry obediently sipped, then held the glass up to 
her lips. “We’ll make it a loving cup. Fifty-fifty. 
Your turn now.” 

Miss Felicity smiled with the delight of a child. The 
sipping of the milk became imbued with the sanctity of 
communion. 

“See here, Aunt Felicity.” Jerry took one of the 
tiny, helpless hands. “I want to talk to you. This is 

the first real chance we’ve had. To begin with-” 

Jerry paused. It was so darned hard to begin. “Well, 
the fact is, I feel—that is, I—oh, hang it all! I don’t 
know how to put it, but the plain dope is, I feel like 
the devil about—about everything. You see, I’m sure 
you’ve made some mistake—about me, you know.” 

“Mistake?” queried Miss Felicity. 

“Yes.” Jerry put the glass on the floor and took 
both her hands. “Now, look here, Aunt Felicity, you 
haven’t a proof on earth that I’m really your nephew. 
There is only the mere accidental fact that I happen 
to look like him, and, to tell you the truth, I believe 
they made us by the quantity—just turned us out like 
—like green peas, you know. I don’t know who I am,” 
Jerry prevaricated boldly—“that is, I haven’t any proof 
that I’m any pea in particular, but a sickening convic¬ 
tion comes over me every once in a while that I’m not 
a Trevider pea at all. Now, suppose another guy turns 
up some day and turns out to be the real Montagu 
Trevider, where’d I be? Good Lord! don’t you see 
what a rotten stew I’d be in? To put it mildly, I’d be 
an impostor.” 



54 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


“My dear boy,” was Miss Felicity’s only comment 

“But, honestly-” Jerry again began desperately. 

“Monty,” interrupted Miss Felicity solemnly, “a 
woman can trust her heart and her instincts even if she 
can’t trust her eyes. Don’t you suppose I can intui¬ 
tively feel the call of blood to blood? We will never 
discuss this again. There is nothing to be gained by it. 
My own convictions entirely satisfy me. If, however, 
they do not satisfy you, and you have, at any time, 
misgivings, then you may comfort yourself by remem¬ 
bering you have claimed nothing—nothing whatever 
from the beginning. It was I who claimed you. I 
claimed you for my own and brought you here.” 

Jerry bowed his head helplessly. Miss Felicity 
smoothed his hair as she added: 

“You are going to be a great comfort to me, Monty 
—more than I could ever have hoped. You have 
changed. I would not have thought of carrying my 
perplexities to you in the past. I know that I can now. 
You are older, and there is a dependability about you 
that fills my heart with comfort.” She paused and then 
said irrelevantly, “I think every one takes advantage of 
a woman alone. And I’m so tired of pretending a 
proud unconsciousness. I know I’m not resourceful 
or capable, and I don’t suppose I’ve got much judg¬ 
ment, but I can’t let them see that, can I? I’m ashamed 
of the condition of things on the estate. During the 
war, of course, nothing mattered except the war, and 
one even gloried in the condition of chaos here at home, 
produced by it. I gladly saw my agent and steward go 
early in the autumn of ’14, and I got along as best I 
could with the help of the old carpenter whom I made 
into a sort of steward, but everything seemed to get 
more and more into a tangle. Things were neglected on 
all sides. The accounts seemed to get queerer and 
queerer the more I worked over them.” 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


55 

Jerry lifted his head abruptly, a look of joy irradiat¬ 
ing his face. 

“I say, Aunt Felicity I I’ve a bear of an idea. Of 
course I haven’t a spectre of a notion what an agent or 
a steward does, but I do know something about figures 
—that is, a sudden conviction has come to me that at 
some time or other I’ve tinkered at accounts. I’ll 
have a go at those accounts of yours. And I’d like to 
try my hand at the other stunts, too. Of course I don’t 
know a blooming iota more about running an English 
estate than I know about running a Hottentot parlia¬ 
ment. But I’ll find out how it is done, and you can bet 
your bottom dollar I’ll not ‘let George do it!’ ” 

“George?” queried Miss Felicity wonderingly. 

Jerry did not heed her question. He was concen¬ 
trated on his own new enthusiasm. “Why, I’ll make 
the old place hum. I’ll guarantee it will be in such 
apple-pie order in six months you won’t recognize it. 
We’ll have no duds lying about. Live wires are what 
we need.” 

“But, my dear boy-” began Miss Felicity. 

“I’m not in the mood for ‘buts,’ ” cried Jerry impa¬ 
tiently. “Don’t waste breath. I’m fired with enthusi¬ 
asm. I’ve got to pull this thing off. I never felt this 
way before about anything—that is, I mean, about any¬ 
thing since I lost my memory. I’ve got the sort of feel¬ 
ing that gets there. I recognize it. I’m exploding with 
the pep that puts things across.” 

Again Miss Felicity began with, “But, Monty 
dear-” 

“Look here, Aunt Felicity,” said Jerry, his voice and 
expression losing the element of lightning and returning 
to calm, “you wouldn’t want to rob me of the chance— 
my one chance of salvation. . . . Can’t you under¬ 
stand? This is my opportunity. It would reinstate my 
self-respect a little. Even if I should, by chance, turn 




FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


56 

out to be—well, somebody else, I can at least know I’ve 
been of some service to you, helped to make the estate 
richer by my having been here, and”—an inspiration 
came to him—“how do you know but it might be the 
means of clearing up everything?—in my brain, I mean 
—restore my memory and all that sort of thing.” 

Miss Felicity was impressed. 

Jerry, seeing the effect produced, worked the vein 
for all it was worth. A half-hour later found them 
excitedly discussing plans for the revolutionizing of 
things. True, Jerry did most of the revolution and 
Miss Felicity most of the listening, but they mentally 
remodelled and rebuilt grape and peach houses, re¬ 
placed old and exhausted wall fruit, restocked the de¬ 
pleted pheasants, and gave notice to the two farmers 
who had pusillanimously taken advantage of the stew- 
ardless Miss Felicity. 

It was two a.m. when a weary but sparkling-eyed old 
lady kissed her supposed nephew good-night. It was 
after four before Jerry closed eyes which up to the 
brink of obliterating sleep had been focussed on a con¬ 
structive future which he felt he could now face with 
a degree of self-respect, however anomalous his posi¬ 
tion. 


CHAPTER VIII 


After two hours’ sleep Jerry awoke before seven and 
lay staring contentedly out of the window, through 
branches of trees, at the far pale blufe of the Bristol 
Channel. 

He felt happy. This was a sensation he had not ex¬ 
perienced for many months. To awake with a sense of 
joy in the mere fact of living, to feel a recrudescence of 
boyish abandon of body and spirit to the day, was in¬ 
toxicating. 

As thought insidiously tempered and eventually 
usurped mere feeling, his happiness became qualified 
by a realization of the endless piling up of lie on lie, 
subterfuge on subterfuge, which this adventure necessi¬ 
tated. Amends could be made, however. There was 
the dear invertebrate Aunt Felicity. He would keep 
a man’s strong arm around her—and around the estate. 
No more dallying with a sentimental temptation to 
break down and confess all. The fable of lost memory 
must be sustained through the fifth act. 

As Jerry breakfasted and replanned with Miss. Fe¬ 
licity the miracles which were to be accomplished, he 
felt a nervous urge to begin at once, begrudging the 
hours which must be wasted keeping the tiresome en¬ 
gagement with Celia Boughton-Leigh. 

When that young lady arrived, she found Jerry stand¬ 
ing in the drive so engrossed in conversation with the 
head gardener, he gave a start as she honked a greeting 
almost under his nose. 


58 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


“Get over, Dorothy Perkins,” she commanded her 
terrier. “Make room for your old friend.” 

The dog bristled as Jerry approached. Her welcome 
consisted of alternate critical yaps and disapproving 
growls. 

“Well, of all the sillies!” laughed Celia, shaking the 
terrier. “And I thought dogs possessed of flawless 
sensibilities, memories, and loyalties. . . . Dorothy, 
you are a disgrace to your race.” 

Dorothy Perkins, unimpressed, devoted all her ener¬ 
gies to preventing Jerry from getting into the car. 

Jerry attempted a conciliating pat. The dog snapped. 
He repeated, “Nice old dog.” There’s a good ki- 
oodle,” and other futile beguilements. There was no 
change in the canine attitude of mind or body. 

Celia administered two resounding smacks and 
yanked the terrier violently to the bottom of the car. 
Jerry seized the lull of enforced truce and jumped in. 
The dog reiterated her unchanged sentiments by un¬ 
complimentary grunts and sighs, while she kept Jerry 
fixed by a corner of the eye scrutiny. 

“I can’t understand it,” said Celia, as she neatly 
turned a sharp corner of the drive. “I never before 
knew her to forget a friend. And the idea of forgetting 
you of all people—after the romps and long walks you 
two used to have during her puppydom and flapperism. 
She must be getting old.” 

Jerry had been made distinctly uncomfortable by the 
dog’s behaviour. How ridiculous it would be to be 
given away by a mere cur! 

“And I had really believed that a dog’s instincts were 
infallible,” persisted Celia. 

Jerry felt the demand for some comment on his part. 

“Six years is a long time.” 

“Not to a dog.” 

“Well, then, perhaps it is due to my memory. Per- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


59 


haps dogs are so infernally psychological they can sense 
that sort of thing. Maybe she is resenting my com¬ 
plete forgetfulness of her—for I assure you I’d have 
taken oath on it I’d never laid eyes on Miss Perkins 
until ten minutes ago.” 

Celia cogitated on this and acknowledged there might 
be something in it, but all the same it seemed rather 
queer. “Of course,” said she, “there can’t be any doubt 
about you—about your being you—but animals are so 
knowing. Why, there was a horse in France ... the 
poor chap told me about it himself. ... In the autumn 
of ’17 he was going up to the trenches with his regiment 
and he noticed a number of horses tethered some dis¬ 
tance away. One of the horses began to neigh and 
plunge at the end of his rope. He thought the beast 
was in trouble, and being a horse lover ran over to see. 
The horse got more and more excited as he approached, 
and changed to ecstatic whinneyings. Imagine what he 
felt when he got close up and discovered his own fav¬ 
ourite hunter—commandeered in the beginning of the 
war! Now that happened in the autumn of ’17—three 
years had passed, and that horse recognized his master 
among thousands and at a distance of over a hundred 
yards! What do you think of that?” 

“Pretty wonderful.” 

“Then why should Dorothy forget you in six years? 
She’s always fierce toward strangers, but once she ad¬ 
mits any one to her affections they are there for always 
—that is, up to this performance.” 

Jerry coughed nervously. He hated persistence in 
women. He hated the kind of female that gets a theme 
and harps on it. It was a symptom of latent powers of 
nagging. He felt like saying, “Oh, hang Dorothy Per¬ 
kins!” and probably would have, had he not been 
plunged out of himself at that moment by the car, in 
Celia’s preoccupied care, almost running down a gaunt 


6 o 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


figure in clerical black, which had appeared like a! 
shadow from behind a hedge at a bend of the narrow 
road. 

The brake brought them to a halt, and Celia intro¬ 
duced “Mr. Coolie.” 

Mr. Coolie wrung Jerry’s hand with unnecessary vio¬ 
lence and gave the dog a violent pat. Dorothy Perkins 
exhibited an enthusiasm which Jerry regarded as evi¬ 
dence of poor taste. 

Celia and Mr. Coolie then discussed a forthcoming 
game of tennis for the afternoon with that passion for 
the shredding of trivial details characteristic of the 
English. 

Mr. Coolie eventually returned to a cognizance of 
Jerry’s presence, and said: 

“I suppose, of course, you’re playing too.” 

Jerry pled urgent business with Miss Trevider. How 
could one think of tennis when one’s desires all reached 
toward remaking a world—that is the world that was 
Tolvean? 

“Business!” laughed Celia. “Don’t be a silly ass, 
Monty. You and business!” 

Jerry felt peculiarly irritated. His irritation seethed 
when Mr. Coolie laughed. 

When the car was once more purring along, between 
hawthorn-bordered hedges, Celia said: 

“The curate, you know—came since you went away. 
What do you think of him?” 

“Haven’t,” said Jerry. 

“If he’d been a woman you would have. But tell 
me, don’t you think he is remarkable looking? Makes 
one think of crusades, quests of the Holy Grail, St. 
George and the dragon sort of thing. Don’t you think 
so?” 

“Makes me think of Wiggs.” 

“Wiggs?” 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 61 

“Yes. I mean the bad fit of his clothes made me 
think of the good cut of Wiggs’s.” 

“You are perfectly horrid this morning,” said Celia. 
“First abusing my dog and now abusing my friend, Mr. 
Coolie.” 

“I didn’t abuse your dog. She did all the abusing.” 

“She didn’t. She was merely telling me the truth.” 

“The truth?” asked Jerry rather anxiously. 

“Yes. Told her mistress that you are no longer the 
amusing old pal of former years, but a nasty, ill-tem¬ 
pered brute whom all feminine creatures would be well 
advised to growl at.” 

Jerry laughed with relief. “Go on. I seem generally 
out of luck this morning. Nothing so safe and success¬ 
ful as hitting a man when he’s down.” 

“Oh, Monty, forgive me!” cried Celia contritely.’ 
“I’d forgotten you’re not well—not normal. I’ve been 
the brute. Here I had planned such a ripping spin for 
you and I’ve been beastly and spoiled everything.” 

“Not in the least. I’ve had a glorious time,” lied 
Jerry. “Anyhow, I’ll tell the world this is some view.” 
He looked out over the vast expanse confronting them 
from the hilltop just crested. The tawny moorland, 
red with dying bracken, purplish with heather and 
flecked with the gold of late gorse, swept in majestic 
undulations into the blue of distance. 

Celia pointed out the furze blossoms. 

“You remember the old Cornish saying, don’t you?” 

“What’s that?” 

Celia looked at him archly as she quoted: “ ‘When 
gorse is out of flower, then kissing’s out of favour.’ ” 

Jerry abruptly got out his cigarette case, as he com¬ 
mented to himself, “Nothing doing.” 

Celia covered the awkwardness of the smoke-filled 
silence by going into raptures over the moors, which 
she likened to the sea. “Oh! how I long to come here 


62 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


at night alone and walk, or rather swim, in the moon¬ 
light. You see, that’s one of the erratic things I could 
do with impunity if I got a blow on the head.” 

“So you could,” agreed Jerry; “though I can’t see, 
for the life of me, why you shouldn’t if you want to 
without the blow. I presume you’ve had some experi¬ 
ence of going out at night unchaperoned if you’ve driven 
a motor ambulance.” 

“But that was France. This is England. Just fancy 
for one moment Miss Felicity permitting Polly—oh!” 
She broke off confusedly. “That is, I mean . . .” In 
her nervousness she fumbled the gear and the car 
slackened abruptly on its upward climb. “Oh, curse it 
all!” 

Jerry kept a discreet silence. 

“Why don’t you say something?” snapped Celia. 

“Because when a man thinks of nothing to say he’s 
got sense enough to say nothing. Did you ever try 
that?” 

Celia gave him one furious look and lapsed into a 
muteness which she hoped would be eloquent of the 
heights and depths of silence which a woman could 
achieve when she chose. 

After this pregnant variety of silence had reigned for 
fully ten minutes, Jerry remarked that the difference 
between a man’s and a woman’s silence was significant. 
A man’s betokened common sense, self-control, or good- 
humoured contentment; a woman’s was invariably a 
species of sulks. 

To this opinion Celia did not condescend to make a 
verbal reply, but she made an eloquent one, neverthe¬ 
less, by turning the car and heading for Tolvean. 

Jerry was not naturally a disagreeable person, and 
he wondered why his nerves were so easily jangled this 
morning. He had felt so unusually in love with life 
when he first woke up. Was it Celia who had jarred 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 63 

his nerves? He pondered upon that curious thing 
which is termed congeniality. It consisted of more 
than mere similarity of tastes. There were some people 
who seemed a completion of one’s self. It was as if 
they were the positive of one’s negative charge. It 
must be a form of electricity. Love must be an intensi¬ 
fied electrical charge. We speak of people rubbing us 
the wrong way. One rubs a cat the wrong way and it 
apparently produces some sort of electrical disarrange¬ 
ment. Celia rubbed him the wrong way. He felt he 
was tingling with electrical sparks of an uncomfortable 
and destructive nature. If he were a dog he’d snap. 
With sudden sympathy he leaned over and smoothed 
Dorothy Perkins’s head. The dog acepted his apology, 
and gave a reserved response with the tail. Jerry felt 
curiously relieved. 

“Look, Celia!” he cried exuberantly, “I’m forgiven.” 

“By whom?” 

“Dorothy, and, I hope, by her mistress.” 

“Indeed?” she replied interrogatively. “I was just 
thinking,” she added irrelevantly, “what an absurd 
figure you’d be in clerical robes.” 

“Thanks. About as funny as you’d look carrying 
soup to the poor.” 

“Really, Monty, you are unbearable this morning! 
Thank Heaven, here is the lodge! I am going to drop 
you here. I thought last night you hadn’t changed 
much. I’ve altered my opinion.” 

“Thanks again,” said Jerry as he grasped the handle. 
Then, seized with contrition for his general disagree¬ 
ableness, he turned about impulsively: 

“Look here, Celia, we’ve made a rotten beginning. 
It’s all my fault. Don’t send me away feeling like a 
naughty boy who’s been justly spanked.” 

Celia gave him a magnanimous smile as she mur¬ 
mured, with patronizing sympathy: 


6 4 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


“Poor old Monty!” 

Jerry’s expression suddenly stiffened. He was all 
pendulum this morning. 

“No,” said he furiously. “By George, I won’t be 
pitied—or forgiven in that tone. Either give me your 
band and shake—or don’t.” 

Celia held out her hand. 

Jerry’s pendulum swung to the other extreme. He 
felt surcharged with contrition. Longing to do some¬ 
thing peculiarly apologetic he lifted the hand toward 
his lips. 

Celia jerked it away with a wry expression of dis¬ 
gust. 

“Don’t be slushy!” she laughed dryly. 

The next moment Jerry was staring at the rear of a 
receding car, as he said under his breath: “Women 
be damned!” 


CHAPTER IX 


It had been characteristic west of England autumnal 
weather for four days. Mists, rain, and wind. Jerry, 
whose sensibilities seemed to have become sensitized, 
became aware of the sinsister personality of the Cornish 
wind. It clutched at windows with wicked fingers, tore 
down branches with impish wantonness, wailed about 
the eaves with the voice of gloating old witches. 

For four mornings, to the accompaniment of rat- 
tlings, creakings, screeches, and moanings, Jerry had 
worked over the confused estate accounts, and had, at 
last, produced lucidity, to the bewildered relief and 
delight of Miss Felicity. 

The afternoons, despite every discouraging variety 
of weather, had been spent in the saddle. Jerry’s riding 
togs already looked more than a year old. Accom¬ 
panied by a disgusted groom he had ridden over every 
narrow lane of the estate. 

Jerry had come to many conclusions, the most im¬ 
portant of which was the conviction that it took time 
to learn to be an English country gentleman. It would 
be a great training in patience. Nothing could be done 
by rapid transit processes in England. 

Shiftless, surly, incompetent farmers could not be 
evicted instantaneously, or “kicked out,” as Jerry 
termed it. It required a long notice according to their 
leases. The gardener, a stubborn, antiquated old idiot 
who would suffer death rather than do anything in any 
way his grandfather had not done it, could become deaf 
on occasion, and retire into an exasperating preoccupa- 
65 


66 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


tion, as a turtle into its shell, when confronted with any 
modern idea or suggestion. If anything radical was to 
be accomplished in the kitchen garden, Stevens must 
go. When this conclusion was broken to Miss Felicity, 
Miss Felicity burst into tears and said it could not be 
thought of. The Stevens “belonged” on the estate. 
The grandfather of the present old Stevens had been 
the gardener for his lifetime, as was his son, the present 
Stevens’s father, and the under-gardener, now in serv¬ 
ice, who was the great-grandson of the original Stevens, 
would of course step into his father’s shoes when the 
present old Stevens was laid in the earth, and young 
Stevens’s son—when he had one—would become his 
assistant and eventual successor, and so on and so on, 
garden without end. 

The old carpenter, who had been temporarily ele¬ 
vated to the stewardship, as a sort of war measure, was 
apparently at present attending to neither the carpen¬ 
tering nor the affairs of the estate. He had become dis¬ 
organized. Duties for which he was not trained had 
made him an incompetent. Yet Miss Felicity insisted 
he must be treated with due consideration and deposed 
from his elevation with tactful deliberation, for he was 
a Trevor row, and the Trevorrows had “belonged” on 
the Tolvean estate since the seventeenth century. 

“But Stevens and Trevorrow are both doddering old 
mules, only fit for service in the Dark Ages,” pro¬ 
tested Jerry. 

“But they are ours,” said Miss Felicity, with finality, 
quietly placing them in the category of Caesar’s wife. 

“Why, even slavery was better than this state of af¬ 
fairs!” said Jerry. “At least you could sell worthless 
slaves. How can any English estate ever be modernized 
if you’ve got this millstone of tradition round your 
necks?” 

“My dear,” said Miss Felicity gently, “loyalty to 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 67 

old servants and grateful remembrance of the services 
of their forbears is a finer thing than a possible profit 
of a few hundred a year more. There is a saying, 
noblesse oblige , which is perhaps difficult of compre¬ 
hension to an American mind.” 

Jerry felt crudely American. 

“No wonder you never get rich quick over here,” he 
said, with aspersion. 

“Perhaps,” said Miss Felicity, “you will find, how¬ 
ever, that almost all the English are possessed of in¬ 
comes—incomes left them by responsible parents or 
careful relatives, and we live within our moderate in¬ 
comes contentedly.” 

There were so many puzzling matters connected with 
English property—the matter of tithes, for example. 
Jerry concluded that no American would ever be able 
to comprehend it—the English themselves seemed to 
accept without understanding. There was the tithe to 
the Church of England (irrespective of the fact that 
the land owner might be a dissenter) and the lay tithe, 
and a lot of special Cornish tithes, founded on all sorts 
of local peculiarities. 

Since the farmers’ riot of thirty years before, the 
tithe was no longer paid by the tenant-farmer, but by 
the landlord. As far as Jerry could see, it was the 
English landlord of to-day who had a hell of a time. 
Yet he found the farmers full of complaints and discon¬ 
tent. They groused at everything. Much of their dis¬ 
content was unformulated, taking the form of vague 
criticism of the Government. Their only real grievance 
seemed to be that of destruction of crops by game. 
The game on Sir Wilfred Boughton-Leigh’s estate made 
havoc with the Tolvean farmers’ com, but they were 
not permitted to kill. The only compensation they got 
was a brace of birds when Sir Wilfred had a shoot. 


68 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


The farmers hoped Miss Felicity would not again 
raise many pheasants. 

Jerry was horrified by the insanitary condition of 
the cottages in the village. When he proposed to Miss 
Felicity that modern plumbing be installed and the 
open drains of the narrow streets abolished, that good 
lady had said the villagers were satisfied to live as their 
forefathers had lived, and they’d probably move if one 
attempted any changes in their dwelling-places. 

He was puzzled by the purchase of houses on “lives.” 
There was an old woman near the village who must 
shortly leave the home of half a lifetime and go to 
the workhouse, because by the death of her husband 
her home had reverted to the Tolvean estate. They 
had purchased the house thirty years before, and during 
that time had spent seventy pounds on improvements. 
Their tenure of it was limited to the lifetime of three 
individuals—two sons and the father. The sons were 
both lost in the war. The father had now died—thus 
the three lives ended, and there was but the workhouse 
for the survivor. If she’d only been older, she sighed, 
she might have had the old-age pension and been spared 
that last of all indignities, the workhouse. 

The old-age pension had apparently robbed age of 
its horrors for the lower classes—the age of seventy 
became invested with dignity and independence, and 
was even looked forward to eagerly. 

It didn’t seem quite just to Jerry, this matter of the 
house, but when he said so to Miss Felicity, painting 
a pathetic figure of the old dame, she said it was an 
unfortunate case. But, with all her kind-heartedness, 
it was evident Miss Felicity could not be made to see 
beyond the fact that it was the English law. 

How could any one ever produce a revolution in af¬ 
fairs here? thought Jerry, feeling himself balked and 
arrested at every turn by some time-honoured tradition, 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


69 

custom, or law. He wanted to do things. He felt he 
knew so well what ought to be done, but one might as 
well try to modernize the Rock of Ages. 

Instead of producing changes, he himself must ap¬ 
parently be the one to change. He must become tradi- 
tionalized, curbed, restrained, devolutionized into the 
typical Englishman. 

It was like being forced to the measures of the 
stately minuet, when one felt all for jazz! 

The fourth day of Jerry’s revolutionary thoughts 
found England and the Tolvean estate unaltered and 
unperturbed in their placid immutability. If anything 
had been accomplished in the way of change, the laurels 
would have to go to England and the estate. They had 
already begun an insidious reconstruction of Jerry 
Middleton. 

It was three in the afternoon—an hour and a half 
yet to tea-time. Jerry was bored. One needed good 
weather to be contentedly idle in. He was smoked out, 
he didn’t take in anything he read, and he didn’t enjoy 
playing patience, as Miss Felicity did. 

He had even, in desperation, thought of Celia Bough- 
ton-Leigh, but his last scene with her returned vividly in 
his memory, and he reiterated the concluding mono¬ 
logue of that occasion. If Jerry had known of the 
term misogynist he would probably have proudly ap¬ 
plied it to himself. No woman could vamp him! 

Of course when one damned all women, one didn’t 
include Aunt Felicities and mothers. They were angels 
—not just mere women. And if one should, by a freak 
of chance, marry, it would mean one had found an¬ 
other angel in the world. 

Thus meditating, Jerry strolled down to the sitting- 
room of the angelic Aunt Felicity. He found the room 


70 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


occupied only by the ruddy-cheeked Paynter, who was 
evidently also in search of Miss Trevider. 

“The mistress must be gone over to ask after Lady 
Boughton-Leigh,” she said. “The poor creature be sick 
abed. Her’s never been good for much, and never 
seemed to take proper root here. But us excuses ’er 
—’er bein’ a furrener—cornin’ from Devon.” 

“Devon!” cried Jerry. “Then what am I? I came 
all the way from America.” 

“But ’ee belongs to be Cornish,” defended Paynter. 
“Anybody could see that as has a eye in ’is head. 
Yes, ’ee be one of we!” 

“Thank you, Paynter. I need compliments to-day. 
This weather gets in under my skin.” 

“Yes, sir, it be dirty weather and enough to give all 
we the sore clunky. But it be grand weather for the 
herrin’. Scores of gurries goin’, I hear. I hopes it ain’t 

bad weather on the sea for crossin’-” She stopped 

abruptly as if she realized she had made a blunder, and 
in her subsequent endeavour to divert Jerry’s attention 
seized a book on Miss Trevider’s table and held it out. 

“Photygraphs be pleasant, sir, to look upon on a 
dirty day like this ’un. They be what is called snap¬ 
shots, and if I ain’t mistaken, took by yourself, Master 
Monty.” 

Jerry accepted the book, flung himself in a chair 
near the fire, and opened the first page desultorily. 
He saw various views of the house, rose garden, and 
surrounding park. He turned the page. A picture of 
two young people on horseback met his eye. He recog¬ 
nized the unmistakable features of Montagu Trevider 
—so like his own. But it was Trevider’s companion 
who intrigued him. A slip of a girl of perhaps sixteen, 
her hatless head, a tumbled mass of wind-dishevelled 
curls, her eyes laughing and challenging, her smiling, 
infantile mouth disclosing an eccentrically placed 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


7i 


dimple, near the right-hand corner. And the delicate 
left eyebrow had that decided tilt which Jerry had 
come to conclude was another stunt Nature was dotty 
on reproducing. He had it himself. The real Montagu 
Trevider had it. The boy in the portrait down in the 
hall had it—so had the sardonic old dowager. It was 
fascinating on the girlish young face confronting him, 
lending an archness of expression, but on the face of 
the skinny ancestress, down in the hall, it made for a 
peculiarly withering air of supercilious contempt. 

Jerry was now turning the pages with excited inter¬ 
est. By George! here was a whole page of her. He 
jumped up, found Miss Felicity’s magnifying glass, and 
took the book to the window. He scrutinized picture 
after picture of the unknown in every conceivable pose 
and costume. 

“She’s a bear!” announced Jerry to himself. “The 
prettiest thing in girl I’ve ever seen. Who the devil is 
she? And why has she been kept out of my sight? I 
hope to the Lord she hasn’t gone off and died! Be 
just my luck to have the first girl I ever took a shine 
to, be dead as Peck’s grandmother.” 

Gone was his disgust over women. Gone his irrita¬ 
tion over England. Gone his fed-up-ness over the 
weather and gone his boredom. 

Clasping the book, he left the room and sped, two 
steps at a time, up to the floor above. As he hurried 
down the corridor leading to his own room he heard 
Paynter’s voice saying: 

“Dirty weather, Mr. Wiggs, but I hope the sun be 
shinin’ on the sea for Miss Polly. Miss Felicity be 
expectin’ of her a week from to-day.” Paynter’s voice 
ceased as she became evidently conscious of approach¬ 
ing steps. 

By the time Jerry reached his room Paynter had 
receded down the back stairs, and Wiggs, with his 


72 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


usual expressionless expression, was hanging up a pair 
of cleaned and freshly pressed riding-breeches. 

“I say, Wiggs,” began Jerry, “come here. You may 
cease being valet for the nonce and reinstate yourself 
as head of the Intelligence Bureau.” He opened the 
book and pointed to the unknown charmer. “Who is 
that? Her face is vaguely familiar,” he fibbed blithely, 
“but for the life of me I can’t recall her name.” 

Wiggs stared down at the photograph, and Jerry 
stared at Wiggs. Jerry wondered if even death could 
change the expression of Wiggs. He felt sure Wiggs 
would lie in his coffin a perfectly correct cadaver of a 
valet, prepared to meet his Maker with a flawlessly 
unopinionated blankness of countenance. 

After a moment’s scrutiny, Wiggs looked up with a 
clear, unflinching eye and said, “I am trying to think, 
sir.” 

Jerry knew he was lying, and admired the magnifi¬ 
cence with which his servant was managing a disagree¬ 
able feat, for already he realized Wiggs was all for 
simple truth. He waited patiently for him to arrange 
matters with his conscience. Wiggs coughed discreetly 
behind flawless finger-nails and announced: “I think 
it would be best, sir, to ask Miss Felicity about the 
young lady. She is naturally better informed on the 
subject of your acquaintances than I.” 

“Thanks, Wiggs,” said Jerry, breaking into a dis¬ 
concerting laugh. “You’re a corker!” 

Wiggs retired hastily, and Jerry, still beaming, sat 
down and carefully detached the loveliest photograph. 
On the back he wrote, “Polly,” and beneath inscribed, 
“Discovered the 15th Oct.” He then carefully placed 
the picture in his left-hand breast-pocket. 

“So this is Polly!” thought he, with the expression 
of three cheers. “This is the girl who is now sailing 
across the sea to me— Me! Great guns! I’m the luck- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


73 


iest chap alive. And blessings be on the head of good 
old Wiggs. The dear old idiot never suspected he’d 
given the whole show away—told me everything by his 
loyal silence.” 

Wiggs returned at that moment carrying resplend¬ 
ency shining, resuscitated riding-gaiters, and said con¬ 
versationally, “Nasty day, sir.” 

“Nasty!” laughed Jerry. “You besotted donkey! 
Why, man alive, it’s the most glorious, heavenly day 
since the beginning of the world! I’m off for a walk, 
so don’t put ’em away. Fetch ’em over.” 

“But, sir, it’s almost tea-time,” protested Wiggs. 

“Tea be blowed!” cried Jerry. “I’m cram jam full 
of ambrosia and nectar!” 


CHAPTER X 


Jerry took no heed of where he walked. He was 
metaphorically walking on air, though in reality he was 
mercilessly subjecting the so recently cleaned leather 
leggings to the mud puddles of the sopping lanes of the 
Boughton-Leigh estate. 

He alternately whistled gaily, as one whose inner 
song of heart demanded outward musical expression, 
and lapsed into silence in the middle of a note—silences 
fraught with too intangible an ecstasy even for musical 
utterance. 

He was transported into a new realm of fantastic 
and delicious speculations. What amazing vistas were 
opening before him. ... A week from to-day Polly 
would arrive! In what relationship did he presumably 
stand to this creature of the witching hair, the deep- 
shadowed, long-lashed eyes, the childish mouth with its 
downward droop and the absurd misplaced dimple? 

He hoped she would at least turn out to be a cousin. 
If she were a cousin she’d probably be on kissing 
terms with him. The mere thought of enjoying that 
privilege of relationship sent an electric sensation shiv¬ 
ering down his spine. Nothing but hearing “Dixie” 
played, when one was on foreign shores, had ever made 
his back behave like that before. Golly! but it was 
queer—that a mere thought could do that to your body 
—just thinking about kissing a girl you’d never 
seen. . . . 

She surely must be some sort of a relative, for had 
not Celia said, “Imagine Miss Felicity permitting Polly 

74 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


75 


to walk alone on the moors at night,” or something to 
that effect? That certainly betokened some right of 
jurisdiction on the part of Aunt Felicity over the actions 
of Polly. 

A sudden thump on the back of his leg, which almost 
upset his equipose, caused Jerry to turn around sharply. 
To his astonishment he found himself the object of 
demonstrations of delight from the dog of Celia Bough- 
ton-Leigh. The temperamental Miss Perkins leapt and 
pawed, with the air of having found an old and treas¬ 
ured friend. 

“Inconsistent jade!” said Jerry, as, in spite of him¬ 
self, he felt a ridiculous glow of pride over the appro¬ 
val, demonstrated in great mudstains on his trousers. 
The opinion of a dog counted for a whole heap. 

The first glow of pride was followed by a distinct 
feeling of alarm and desire for flight. Jerry naturally 
presumed the fair owner of the dog might be in close 
proximity. Dedicated, as his every present thought 
and emotion was, to the recently discovered Polly, he 
felt that Celia was the very last member of the feminine 
species whom he wished to confront. Irrespective of 
his sentiments, however, he forced himself to a chival¬ 
rous halt, just as his legs were making for a pusillani¬ 
mous leap over the protecting hedge. He’d wait. He 
did staunchly for over five minutes, then seeing still 
no signs of the approach of the dog’s mistress, gave 
himself up to the barked invitation of Dorothy Perkins 
to “come along and rediscover the world with me.” The 
moment he began to follow, Dorothy looked back at 
him with an expression which said: “Of course, I 
realize you planned this walk solely for my pleasure.” 
The womanly vanity of her! She then forthwith 
seemed to dismiss Jerry completely from her mind, 
darting off on delighted tangents into every tangle and 
ditch 


76 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Jerry pondered on the two different worlds which 
they inhabited and through which they walked. 
Brought back from the world of whimsy and dreams, 
he now saw the pall of grey sky through the fine mist 
which was noiselessly drenching the leaves. More than 
half the time his eyes were turned earthward, pre¬ 
occupied with the sordid affair of avoiding puddles. 
He was only subconsciously aware of the contour of the 
trees about, the contorted branches of old gorse bushes 
topping stone hedges, the rare glimpses of mist-veiled 
moorland. His eye was turned inward on his own 
thoughts, his nose was insensitive to the subtle wood 
odours. Dorothy Perkins’s senses, on the other hand, 
were all turned outward. She did not once look at the 
sky or notice mud puddles. She was following a myriad 
trails of mysterious wonder. A trail was only half 
followed before it was abandoned for some more en¬ 
trancing allure. Her world of scent and sound was a 
world of which Jerry had no conception. “We are as 
far apart as the planets,” thought Jerry, “and yet we 
walk together.” 

His vagarious thought was brought to an end by the 
sudden halt of Dorothy, the stiffening of her body and 
tail and the alertness of upstanding ears. She had 
heard something outside her own private world. Some 
one must be approaching. It was probably a cow-man. 
Dorothy’s excuse for a tail announced a recognition of 
the oncomer even before her instinct was confirmed by 
visual powers. 

Of all people in the world, Wiggs was the last Jerry 
expected to see, but Wiggs it was, and a Wiggs never 
before seen. It was a Wiggs of abandoned, unvaleted 
expression of perfectly normal human worry, most 
shocking to behold. Jerry, seeing that Wiggs was 
unaware of a witness, felt it incumbent upon him to 
make his presence known quickly. It was as unfair as 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


77 

looking in upon any one in the bath-tub. It was look¬ 
ing upon Wiggs spiritually naked. 

“Hello! What is it?” asked Jerry at a distance that 
made shouting necessary. “Looking for me?” 

The mask quickly fell over the servant’s counte¬ 
nance, the shoulders lost their droop, even the clothes 
of the man seemed to come to attention. 

“Yes, sir, for over an hour.” 

Poor Wiggs! His usually immaculate trousers were 
bespattered round the ankles, his burberry was drip¬ 
ping, and his hat brim had become a water lead. His 
appearance was eloquent of the unusual. 

“Anything wrong? Nothing wrong with my aunt, 
I hope. She’s not ill?” Jerry hadn’t realized until he 
heard the genuine anxiety of his voice how very pre¬ 
cious the little spinster had become to him. 

“No, sir. That is, Miss Trevider is not ill. She 
sends her compliments, and will you be so good, sir, as 
to return home as quickly as possible.” 

Jerry respected Wiggs far too much to press him to 
reveal anything which he knew Wiggs would feel it out¬ 
side his province to disclose, so he only said, “All right,” 
and turned about. 

Dorothy Perkins stood for a moment at indecision; 
then, with a sigh over the unreliability of men, resigned 
herself to Jerry’s inconsequence; forsaking the realm 
of tempting odours under bracken and bramble, she 
became a dog of responsibilities and headed for home. 
Jerry did not even miss her. He was preoccupied with 
conjectures. Only a staccato sentence or two on the 
weather punctuated the silence between him and Wiggs 
all the way back to Tolvean. 

“In her sitting-room, sir,” said Wiggs as he opened 
the front door. 

Jerry felt* that his own emotions were those most ap- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


78 

propriate for an undertaker or the best man at the 
marriage altar. 

Then, too, the immaculate hall brought a sudden 
sense of his own bedragglement and mud. His respon¬ 
sibilities to Wiggs demanded things—besides, a bath 
and clean clothes would delay matters a little, and 
Jerry confessed abruptly to a desire for delay. He had 
a nasty premonition of something disagreeable. Yes, he 
felt decidedly for procrastination and dry boots. But 
when he suggested to Wiggs that he must dean up be¬ 
fore he presented himself to his aunt, Wiggs manifested 
a spirit above that of the valet. “I would suggest, sir, 
that you see Miss Trevider first—as you are.” The 
words were merely suggestive, but the tone was com¬ 
manding. 

“Lord! it must be important,” thought Jerry, as he 
meekly went up the stairs. He rapped with a gentle¬ 
ness that suggested a whisper. Somehow the occasion 
seemed to demand the muffled. He thought the “Come 
in” sounded a trifle tremulous. 

Miss Felicity was sitting stiffly upright in the atti¬ 
tude of one who has waited long and nervously. 

“Come in, Monty. I thought you were never com¬ 
ing.” She was intertwining her fingers and shifting her 
feet about. Jerry had always thought of Miss Felicity 
as the embodiment of calm. 

“You were looking for me before tea, Paynter tells 
me.” 

“Oh! that was nothing important,” said Jerry. “Just 
sauntered down to see you—been such a beastly day, 
and-” 

Miss Felicity wasn’t listening. She interrupted him 
with the information that she had been over to the 
Boughton-Leighs’. “I was suddenly summoned,” she 
added gravely. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


79 

“Nothing wrong, I hope. Celia hasn’t smashed her¬ 
self up?” asked Jerry. 

“No, my dear. It isn’t Celia. It’s Celia’s mother.” 

“Smashed?” 

“No, dying.” 

“O Lord!” 

“You haven’t seen her since your return. You prob¬ 
ably can’t remember her. She hasn’t seen any one 
outside the family for many months—since she had 
the stroke. She has long been an invalid, poor thing! 
She has had another stroke, and—and I fear will not 
last out the night. Sir Wilfred has been telegraphed 
for.” 

“Hard luck. I’m awful sorry for Celia,” said Jerry 
sincerely. “But what can I do, Aunt Felicity? I 
somehow feel you do want me to do something.” 

“My dear boy—that’s the awkward part of it.” 
Miss Felicity was again lacing and unlacing her fingers. 

Jerry stared silently at the troubled, flushed face be¬ 
fore him. 

“You can, Monty.” Miss Felicity paused, confused. 
“Oh dear, I wish I had talked things over with you 
earlier, but I’ve been putting it off until you were 
stronger and yourself again, but now I shall have to be 
quite frank with you. The truth is, my dear, there was 
an understanding between you and Celia—in fact, be¬ 
tween our two families, which practically amounted to 
an engagement. It was, of course, not to be announced 
until you had come down. Then you went away. The 
match was one of which both Sir Wilfred and Lady 
Boughton-Leigh entirely approved—in spite of certain 
traits—certain troublesome tendencies which you had 
at times exhibited. I need hardly say that the marriage 
would have been one entirely desirable to me, for I am 
very fond of Celia. And, from a worldly point of view, 
it would be advisable because of the two properties 


8o 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


joining, and—well, Celia will have a very handsome 
dowry—she is the only child, and Sir Wilfred has made 
a great fortune in shipping.” 

Jerry had a sense of suffocation. The room seemed 
close. He felt as if the walls were closing in on him. 
He jumped up as Miss Felicity paused and opened a 
window. What awful tricks had fate up her sleeve 
for him now? He wanted to run. He stood at the win¬ 
dow and stared blindly out on the sopping dusk. He 
did not turn round when Miss Felicity began to speak 
again. 

“Now you understand, dear, that a tacit engagement 
existed, with the approval of every one, but your long 
absence has, of course, made things very difficult and 
obscure, and your present affliction, your affected 
memory, has brought about a natural complication. 
Celia—none of us know where we stand. We have 
been in a quandary to know what to do—what was best 
to do. It was Celia’s desire that you should not be told 
of your former relationship to her—her womanly deli¬ 
cacy naturally made her prefer that any renewal of 
the engagement should be inaugurated—that is, should 
be the outcome of your desires—due to your attraction 
towards her.” 

Miss Felicity paused again. Jerry felt acutely aware 
of his dampness. He shivered with cold. He was 
speechless, and thought seemed paralysed. 

“Lady Boughton-Leigh has regained her speech. She 
sent for me.” Miss Felicity shot out the sentences 
nervously. “It is probably only the whim of a dying 
woman, but ... oh dear! it’s so difficult. . . . Please 
come over here, Monty, and look at me.” Jerry 
dragged himself across the space and sat heavily in a 
chair facing Miss Felicity. “Try to realize, dear, how 
difficult this is for Celia. I can quite understand the 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 8r 

poor child’s unhappiness and mortification, but what 
can she do?” 

“Do?” queried Jerry idiotically. 

“Yes, do,” repeated Miss Felicity inanely. “You 
see, her mother insists that she cannot die happily unless 
she knows that Celia is to be happy—that you two are 
to be reunited. The poor creature is too ill to be argued 
with. Celia’s pride and her love for her mother have 
waged a fearful battle. The dear child feels that she 
is being thrown at you, forced upon you—that you are 
to be coerced into an engagement for which you have 
no heart. But her love for her mother, her desire to 
ease her mother’s mind at the end, has conquered all 
else and—oh, can’t you see, Monty—can’t you see it all 
and pity her?” 

“Good God! See! Of course I see,” cried Jerry. 
“It’s a rotten situation for her. What am I to do? 
I am, of course, at your service,” and he added, at 
what cost only he himself knew, “and at Celia’s.” 

“Oh, Monty!” Miss Felicity’s voice broke and she 
descended to tears. 

“If you only could know how loyal Celia was when 
—when the trouble came—when you went away. She’s 
been loyal all these years—always believing in you, 
always insisting you would return some day. She and 
I never lost that faith. It has knitted us very closely 
together. And Celia has steadfastly refused to encour¬ 
age the attentions of others—has rejected, to my knowl¬ 
edge, one very advantageous offer.” All this had been 
sobbed out rather than talked. 

“Just don’t cry, Aunt Felicity,” begged Jerry. 
“Don’t cry, for mercy’s sake. I understand everything. 
I’m grateful. God knows I’m grateful, and all I want 
to do is to please you—to make you happy.” 

“Then you don’t mind renewing the engagement— 
you do still care for her, you do want to marry her 


82 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


really? Oh dear! it would be such a. relief to my mind 
—it would make me so happy.” 

“If it would make you happy I’ll marry Celia—or 
anybody else,” said Jerry. 

“Then you are marrying her only to please me,” 
said Miss Felicity wearily. 

“For Heaven’s sake don’t let’s quibble,” pleaded 
Jerry. “This isn’t the time to go into the psychology of 
the thing. A woman is dying, her hours are numbered. 
We will act and talk about it later. Shall I order the 
carriage?” 

“Yes, please do.” Miss Felicity was again dabbing 
her eyes with her handkerchief. 

Jerry stumbled out of the room and thought, “Dam’ 1 
that blasted primordial atom.” 

His heart seemed to be beating all wrong; it thumped 
and then it skipped a beat. He put his hand up as if 
to steady it, and suddenly felt, in his pocket, the photo¬ 
graph of the unknown Polly. It was for the moment 
as if his heart had stopped. 


CHAPTER XI 


The door of the Boughton-Leigh home was opened 
by a creature of fearful gloom. A pall of silence hung 
over the hall. The whole atmosphere, so to speak, 
reeked of finality. Miss Felicity and Jerry sat in the 
hall to wait. It was like waiting outside the door of 
eternity. 

Jerry felt hysterical. It took every ounce of self- 
control to restrain himself from maniacal tears and 
laughter. The preposterousness of the situation which 
an unscrupulous fate had forced upon him was absurdly 
horrible. 

He wished to God he had not, once upon a time, said 
“Shut up” to his conscience. He wished he had held 
on tight to the guiding reins of his own life—but could 
he have? Was he an independent, free agent? Who 
or what had sent the thought of the solution to him? 
Could he have resisted its beckoning had he wanted to? 
All life seemed a damnable trap. Poor, vain human 
beings thought they were playing their roles as they 
chose, according to the dictates of their desires of their 
conscience, when in reality they were mere helpless 
puppets dancing to the order of some impish power that 
laughed as it yanked the strings. Or, again, it was 
like a chessboard—this ridiculous world—where fren¬ 
zied, absurd, self-vaulting fools thought themselves 
moving with infinite calculation and skill toward in¬ 
evitable victory—a victory of their own planning. And 
they were but the pawns of Fate! 

Oh! the farce of it all! The inconsequent cruelty of 
83 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


84 

it all! And the unthinkable injustice of everything. 
Here we are born into this world handicapped or 
blessed by the evil or good qualities inherited from those 
whose blood flows through our helpless veins. A poor 
wretch comes into life cursed—a predestined-by-inherit- 
ance criminal! his instincts are all for evil; he lives 
in accord and harmony with his instincts, his inherited 
traits, and the world imprisons him or puts him to 
death. He pays the price of perfect consistency. Again 
we are told by the religionists that we are born into the 
world imbued with a universal predilection for sin, a 
preternatural tendency to err, yet when this omnipo¬ 
tently bestowed frailty gets the better of us and we sin, 
we fall on our knees and chivalrously take upon our¬ 
selves all blame, praying for forgiveness! It would be 
far more honest, thought Jerry, to stand up like a man 
and curse high Heaven. Why should we apologize, 
grovel, cringe? It was Fate, Nature, God—call it what 
you will, which owed mankind an apology! . . . 

Jerry wrenched his thoughts with difficulty from his 
inward seething to listen to Miss Felicity, who was only 
murmuring a concern over Jerry’s dampness. She had 
just realized for the first time his rain-sodden clothes. 
What was a possible chance of taking cold, beside this 
horrible cataclysm which he was facing—a betrothal 
to a woman for whom he had to confess a feeling of 
distaste almost amounting to antipathy? 

The grim hush of the house got on his nerves more 
and more. It was like a prelude of the vast silence of 
death itself. Doors softly opening and shutting in the 
distance had a tone of affrighted percussion. 

The creature of gloom reappeared. They were re¬ 
quested to go upstairs. Jerry rose and, as he followed 
the servant and Miss Felicity, felt he was a somnambu¬ 
list. The powerless sense of somnambulism brought 
with it a resignation—the resignation which probably 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 85 

mercifully dulls the victim on the way to the scaffold. 
The inevitable carries its own anaesthetic. 

He wondered abstractly what Celia’s present emo¬ 
tions were. He hoped they were only grief—all-ob¬ 
literating grief. He hadn’t even the distraction of grief. 

They paused outside the door. The servant entered 
alone. Miss Felicity seized the opportunity of the 
pause to press Jerry’s hand with gratitude and perhaps 
a desire to bestow encouragement. 

The door opened. The servant, in the whisper of 
the sick-room, bade them enter. 

The spectacle confronting Jerry seemed like a grue¬ 
some dream. On a gigantic four-post bed lay en¬ 
throned a figure of cadaverous face, with eyes dilated 
and paralysed to a wide, unearthly stare. The eyes 
seemed to blot out everything else in the room. 

It was with a positive physical effort that Jerry 
disengaged his own from those of the dying woman and 
looked away. Then he saw Celia. She stood on the 
left of her mother, her face pallid and set. On the 
right of the bed sat the curate, Mr. Coolie, like an owl 
in the ivy. 

At the sight of Mr. Coolie visions came to Jerry 
of a special license, and a marriage in the presence of 
the dying. Anything was possible—such is the tyranny 
of death. Betrothal, yes—but marriage—no, no, a 
thousand times no! He must be given time to adjust 
himself to the thought of marriage. 

He had stood transfixed about four feet from the 
door. Miss Felicity gave him a signalling look. 

He automatically moved and felt himself drawn to¬ 
ward the bed, as toward some weird magnet. 

No one had yet spoken. The air of the room seemed 
to pulsate with the laboured breath of the dying woman. 
It was the only evidence of life there. The dying alone 
was the animate and vibrating. 


86 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Lady Boughton-Leigh was muttering. Mr. Coolie 
stood and bent his head to hear, then interpreted that 
she desired that Jerry would stand at the foot of the 
bed in range of her vision, and that there be more 
light so that she might see him clearly. 

Jerry dragged leaden feet to the commanded posi¬ 
tion. As the light came flooding upon him he felt 
like an actor in the limelight. He was transfixed by 
those frozen eyes. They seemed to penetrate through 
to his brain cells, to intrude upon his most intimate 
thoughts, to invade his very soul—the soul of Jerry 
Middleton. If the dying woman had cried, “Impos¬ 
tor ! ” Jerry would have felt no surprise. It would have 
been relief. He longed for exposure, reprieve, deliver¬ 
ance. 

Then he realized that Miss Felicity was gently forc¬ 
ing Celia toward him. He turned and looked into the 
tear-stained, twitching face of the girl and forgot him¬ 
self. Human sympathy alone controlled and inspired 
him. He heard himself saying, “Celia.’’ 

Celia raised her head and gazed at him with the 
expression of one whose pride is in the dust, of a 
woman thrust naked in the marriage mart. As Jerry 
looked, he recognized a fellow-pawn in the hands of a 
sardonic Fate. 

A great flood of pity and indignation carried him 
beyond himself. He felt greater, more merciful than 
Fate. He felt avenging. He’d cheat Fate of his tri¬ 
umph over this poor broken pawn, he’d rob him of the 
victory of a woman’s humiliation, he’d proudly shelter 
this latest victim from the conscienceless infamy of 
the Player-with-the-tongue-in-cheek. 

Chivalrously, proudly, he put his arms about the 
quivering girl, and held her to his throbbing heart. 
His passion was akin to that of a mother. 

He bowed his head and reverently laid his lips on 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 87 

Celia’s hair as he consecrated himself, his life, to the 
service of defeating Fate. 

He felt the form in his arms shaking as if with ague. 
Imperceptibly the girl released herself from his hold 
and walked unsteadily away. 

Jerry’s eyes were then drawn irresistibly back to 
those of the dying woman. 

Her distended eyes now hold an uncanny relief, tri¬ 
umph—the triumph of the omnipotent dying. 

Jerry did not know how he got out of the room, and 
he only gradually became conscious of the fact that he 
was descending the stairs accompanied by the St. 
George-and-the-Dragon curate. He became aware that 
Mr. Coolie was saying something about the lamentable 
passing of that estimable soul,” a sentence which some¬ 
how sounded indecent to Jerrys’ acutely overwrought 
sensibilities. 

The curate piloted him into the library, sat in the 
downiest chair, and engaged himself in the apparently 
absorbing and gratifying pastime of seeing how care¬ 
fully he could fit the tips of all of his fingers together. 

Then Mr. Coolie talked, said all the most flawless 
platitudes appropriate to an occasion of impending 
death. 

The more he talked the more Jerry found himself 
resenting Mr. Coolie and his manner. His manner was 
that of a smug master of heavenly ceremonies. Jerry 
thought he looked like a celestial floor-walker. Mr. 
Coolie spoke with the authority of one who alone, 
among them all, was conversant with the realm to 
which that soul upstairs was impalpably winging. He 
spoke with the intimacy of one who is the confidant 
of the Deity. 

Jerry got up and paced restlessly. He wanted to 
get away. What need to tarry now? The engagement 
had been tacitly renewed. What more was necessary? 


88 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Was he expected to wait—wait till the last scene was 
over upstairs? 

He longed to smoke, but a cigarette would seem a 
frivolous relaxation, a luxurious affront in the presence 
of the unearthly Mr. Coolie. 

A servant entered as noiselessly as a spirit and 
looked, rather than announced, supper. 

Supper, of all things! Even though a woman lay 
dying upstairs meals must come and meals must go. 

He entered the dining-room to find Celia awaiting 
them, at the head of the table, with calm dignity. All 
traces of recent tears had been miraculously removed 
from her cheeks, the pinched look seemed mysteriously 
ironed from her countenance. Only a reddened tint of 
eyelids remained to affirm Jerry’s last memory of the 
agonized face he had sheltered against his heart. 

He marvelled at the recuperative powers of women. 

Aunt Felicity remained upstairs to keep vigil with 
the nurse. The doctor, whose active services were at 
an end, was there at the table. He had now only to 
wait. One might as well eat while waiting. 

A conversation of sorts, piloted by Mr. Coolie, 
achieved itself spasmodically. Celia spoke but little, 
but maintained the consideration of the hostess—the 
butler having been dismissed from the room—seeing 
to the comfort of her guests, the refilling of glasses 
and the replenishment of their plates—especially that 
of Mr. Coolie, who, however spiritually minded, evi¬ 
dently possessed a stomach frankly human. 

No reference was in any way made to the life-drama 
drawing toward its curtain fall on the floor above. 

A telegram from Sir Wilfred was brought in. All 
thoughts were abruptly recentred on the cause of their 
presence in the house. A half-frightened, almost apolo¬ 
getic, cessation of the click and rattle of eating utensils 
made for a respectful reception of the message from the 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 89 

absent one. Sir Wilfred had taken the night train. 
He would arrive in the morning. Mr. Coolie’s expres¬ 
sion was as if he thought aloud: “Let us hope it will 
not be too late.” 

The doctor, the only authority on the question, 
looked unopinionated, and, as if feeling the interrup¬ 
tion had been given sufficient and due respect, fell to 
and ate with renewed gusto. 

Celia in her turn, with the putting aside of the tele¬ 
gram, seemed to dismiss the thoughts coincident with 
its receipt, and asked Mr. Coolie if his hopes for a holi¬ 
day in town in November were to be gratified and when 
he expected the vicar back. 

Jerry felt his admiration for Celia ever increasing 
as the meal went on. Her restraint was magnificent. 

As they rose she beckoned to Jerry; leaving Mr. 
Coolie and the doctor to the solace and enjoyment of 
the port together, he followed her into the hall. 

She turned, the old look of distress upon her face, 
and asked piteously: “I can’t help by going up, can 
I?” 

“No,” said Jerry. 

“I feel as if I couldn’t endure it up there again. Oh! 
the hours and hours on end of it to-day. ... I am 
stifling. I must get out.” 

“Shall we walk on the terrace?” suggested Jerry. 

“Yes, please.” She opened a closet and found two 
mackintoshes. “We don’t want anything over our 
heads, do we? It will feel so good—the rain in our 
faces.” 

He put the mackintosh on her with a new tender¬ 
ness. The mood of consecration had returned. They 
passed out into the dark and the rain. He offered Celia 
a cigarette, but she declined. He smoked as they 
tramped. The only sound was that of footsteps falling 
on or sucking up from the soaking sod of the terrace. 


go 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


They pursued each their private train of thought, and 
neither wondered what the other was thinking. Only 
after an hour had passed and fatigue brought Celia to 
a desire for indoors and a chair, did the thought occur 
to Jerry of the similarity of the experience of the past 
hour with Celia and that of the afternoon with Celia’s 
dog. 

Their bodies had walked together—his and Celia’s— 
but their minds and souls had traversed paths of 
thought and feeling as far apart as the stars in space. 

Oh! the loneliness of life—the loneliness of the hu¬ 
man soul—never once, in all its journey through life, 
merging one-millionth of an inch within the orbit of a 
fellow-soul! 


CHAPTER XII 


Three days and nights had passed like a nightmare. 
The days had been interminable blanks, the nights pal¬ 
pitant, distorted horrors. “Le tourment et le sommeii 
ne sont pas camarades de lit” 

The funeral was over. Jerry, just returned from that 
culminating trial, flung himself on the couch in his 
own room and lit a cigarette. He put the black fu¬ 
nereal gloves on the table. As he did so, he marvelled 
anew at the amazing prescience of Wiggs. 

Dazed by his own inner chaos, Jerry had taken no 
thought of his needs in the way of appropriate funereal 
wearing apparel, but Wiggs had. When Jerry emerged 
from his bath that morning he had found the magician 
Wiggs holding, for the reception of his legs, trousers 
of a lugubrious mournfulness of hue, while all the other 
cloth relatives of gloom lay awaiting their victim on 
the bed. There was nothing lacking to complete the 
perfection of mourning—crepe band on the sleeve and 
crepe sheath around the sombre new stiff hat. Lying 
to one side, and looking indecorously like dead chicken 
feet, were the awful gloves. These accoutrements of 
death seemed to fill the room with a sense of bereftness. 
Jerry felt himself pervaded by grief—abstract, imper¬ 
sonal, foundationless grief. He hadn’t know Lady 
Boughton-Leigh, he’d never seen her but for those 
hideous minutes of inquisition in her chamber of death, 
and he felt nothing for her but resentment. Yet now, 
because of those infernally melancholy garments inci¬ 
dent to her funeral, he was suffering as much as if he’d 
91 


92 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


lost a beloved friend. The incredible influence of 
colour, of clothes, of association! 

When completely robed and approved by Wiggs, 
Jerry had sedately marched downstairs to the inner 
accompaniment of a muffled drum and the poignant 
notes of Chopin. 

Into his mind had flitted two lines he had once 
heard: 


“When the struggle of life is over, 

And the trouble of dying is done. . . 

What a trouble it all was to be sure—he now thought 
again, as smoking he called Wiggs and said: “Get 
these damned duds off me and bring my dressing- 
gown.” 

It was astonishing how soon one grew accustomed 
to the ministrations of a slave. Jerry supposed it was 
in his blood—an inheritance from his maternal slave¬ 
owning Southern ancestors. 

As Wiggs stooped and removed his master’s shoes, 
replacing them by comfortable house pumps, Jerry 
had the half-bored expression of a cat being stroked. 
He might have even purred if he’d known how to; 
purring alone would have been an adequate expression 
of the contentment produced by Wiggs’s attentions. 

As the servant removed the black gloves from the 
table, Jerry hoped he’d burn them. To save them 
would savour nastily of anticipation, expectation. 

The room, cleansed of all reminders of death, seemed 
suddenly to take on a higher key in colour and note. 
The fire crackled jauntily, the windows rattled merrily 
to the tune of a blithesome breeze. It was the quick¬ 
step of the band on the return from the grave. 

Yet that now blithesome wind had tortured Jerry 
through all the interminable hours of the night before. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


93 


It had twisted his thoughts as it had twisted the trees. 
It had howled and hissed like a demon, suggesting to 
an insomnia-distorted mind hurricanes at sea—a ship 
pounded by merciless, giant waves, decks swept by 
tons of water, lifebelts frenziedly donned, lifeboats put 
out and swamped ... sea strewn with wreckage and 
human flotsam. 

Lying as he now was before the cheery fire in a 
sun-dappled room, watching a curtain curtsying co- 
quettishly to the breeze which flirted with it through 
the open window, Jerry marvelled at his insanity of the 
night before. How impossible it was ever to recapture 
a gone emotion! What utterly different creatures we 
are at different hours—and each incomprehensible to 
the other. He looked back on that which was himself 
the night before with stupefaction. He had been mad 
—mad with terror and fear—fear of the loss of a girl 
whom he had never seen. He had longed to pray— 
pray some omnipotent Being to safeguard Polly—di¬ 
vert disaster from that helpless little form. He had 
got as far as “O God!” but the embarrassment of self- 
consciousness, to one unaccustomed to supplicate the 
Deity, had held him there, metamorphosing his tenta¬ 
tive prayer prelude into a sort of blasphemous excla¬ 
mation. 

When he had awakened, after a troubled doze to¬ 
ward morning, and seen the sun and heard the tempered 
wind he had pretended to himself that he was glad 
only because of the poor creature who was to be laid 
to rest that day. Such are our self-deceits. 

He even now stubbornly maintained he had been 
glad for Celia’s sake. The girl’s face haunted him— 
that pinched, tearless, burnt-out face, just glimpsed 
that morning as she was led away from the closed coffin 
by Aunt Felicity. He had curiously realized himself 


94 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


feeling all the concern, tenderness, responsibility of a 
lover without any of the love or passion. 

They had not spoken since their parting that night, 
after the walk in the rain on the terrace, when Celia 
had merely said, “Thank you, Monty, for not having 
talked.” 

He was now puzzled to know what to do next. 
Should he write, or ought he to call? He dreaded 
doing anything. A solution now presented itself. 
“When in doubt send flowers,” thought he, and, lean¬ 
ing over, pulled a bell cord. 

“Violets, Wiggs. Have the gardener pick a big bunch 
and take them over yourself.” 

Wiggs did not ask where he was to take them. He 
was trained in mind-reading. 

Jerry spent a half-hour over the card. His instincts 
were all for the non-committal. His judgment and 
heart dictated a decent expression of condolence. 
Eventually the message ran: “Dear Celia, —These 
go to you with my sympathy and-” 

“Write it, dam’ you—write it like a man,” he or¬ 
dered himself, but his hand still halted. “You’d be a 
rotter to say less—and what’s a mere word?” His 
hand moved, and he added the word “love.” 

To his memory came the encounter that morning with 
Sir Wilfred and the silent but unmistakably meaningful 
greeting. It had been but the passing of an arm about 
Jerry’s shoulder, but it held his acceptance of a future 
member of the family. 

The renewal of the engagement had been metaphoric¬ 
ally announced to the county by Jerry’s position beside 
Sir Wilfred in the carriage which followed immediately 
behind the hearse. 

Jerry had been conscious of the interested gaze of 
onlookers as he had passed out of the churchyard, Sir 
Wilfred leaning heavily upon his arm. He was glad 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


95 


Celia had been spared the ordeal of stares. He quite 
approved of the English custom of keeping women 
away from funerals. He was also glad that Celia 
hadn’t been subjected to the exalted Mr. Coolie, with 
his voice of exaggerated gloom, and the uplifted eyes 
of the crusader. He was sure Mr. Coolie had enjoyed 
his own dramatic elocution in his rendition of those 
interrogations regarding “sting” and “victory.” 

And probably that odious Coolie would next be 
mouthing the marriage ceremony—orating it over him, 
Jerry Middleton, and Celia Boughton-Leigh! Jerry 
could even hear the exact tone in which Mr. Coolie 
would pronounce the doom and threat of “Whom God 
hath joined together let no man-” 

Great heavens! It couldn’t be done—it mustn’t be 
done. It would be criminal. Jerry paced the floor. 
“I can’t let the girl marry me, Jerry Middleton, under 
a delusion that she is marrying the man she loves. This 
blessed farce has got to be ended—somehow. Here am 
I, a penniless adventurer-” 

“Luncheon will be served in fifteen minutes, sir. 
Will you change—put on your coat?” Wiggs’s voice 
seemed to Jerry to come to him out of another world. 

He turned almost startled eyes upon his servant. 

“Change? Yes. Oh, Wiggs! I wish to God I could 
change my soul as well.” 

Jerry looked so white and queer. Wiggs, without a 
word, laid the coat on a chair, went to a side table, and 
prepared a whisky and soda. 

Jerry accepted it without comment and swallowed 
it almost in one breath. 

“Wiggs, did you ever wish to the Lord you were 
somebody else?” 

“No, sir; can’t remember that I have.” 

“Do you mean to say you are perfectly content to 
be who and what you are?” 



96 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


“Yes, sir, I am, especially now that you have re¬ 
turned.” 

“I?” cried Jerry, turning to look at Wiggs. “Do you 
mean to say you’ve got any feeling—personal feeling 
about me—that you like me?” 

Wiggs looked positively shy and actually fingered 
a book on the table. 

“Well, sir, begging your pardon, I would say, how 
could any one do otherwise? You see, sir, you are such 
a likeable and considerate young gentleman. If I had 
to be changed into somebody else, Mr. Montague, I’d 
make so bold, sir, as to hope I might be changed into 
some one just like you.” 

Jerry stared, his mouth open. He was nonplussed. 

“You’re a goddam concentrated jackass!” he said. 
The tone was almost brutal, but his heart glowed with 
gratitude to the humble Wiggs. Five minutes ago he 
had hated himself, felt ready to blow his brains out, 
and now a little flattery from a doting idiot of a servant 
actually made him feel life was worth more than a 
ha’penny dam’, even worth the trouble of seeing it 
through. 

After all, if he had to become plain Jerry Middleton 
again, next to the loss of Aunt Felicity the parting with 
Wiggs would be . . . 

Jerry looked at Wiggs. Wiggs lifted his eyes as if 
feeling the summons in Jerry’s, and as he beheld there¬ 
in two unshed tears, Wiggs almost lost grip of his own 
mask. They gazed silently at each other and from eye 
to eye there flashed a second’s message spanning all 
gulfs separating class from class, race from race. As 
Jerry strode from the room he thought, “Hang it all I 
I actually believe I’m growing fond of Wiggs.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


It was not until the forenoon of Monday—the sec¬ 
ond day after the burial of Lady Boughton-Leigh—that 
Jerry called at the home of Celia. 

He entered the morning-room to find Mr. Coolie just 
taking his departure. On shaking Jerry’s hand the 
curate evidently tried to compress both greeting and 
farewell. The resulting ache suggested that one’s hand 
had experienced imprisonment in a vice. 

Celia welcomed him with a sweet natural calm. 

Jerry’s eyes strayed to a bowl on the table filled with 
violets. 

He felt curiously tongue-tied and shy when left alone 
with Celia. What did one do when left alone with one’s 
betrothed? He wished to goodness Mr. Coolie had 
remained. For once he yearned for that sustaining, 
yet ethereal, presence. 

He heard himself mouthing perfunctory inquiries 
about Celia’s state of health, and forgot to listen to the 
replies. 

Mercifully at this juncture Dorothy Perkins bounded 
into the room, bestowing an overwhelming welcome on 
Jerry. 

Celia looked both surprised and pleased. “I see,” 
said she, “that Dorothy is trying to make amends for 
her gracelessness that first day.” 

Jerry thought it unnecessary to refer to the walk 
which he and the terrier had taken together. 

“She has evidently come to her dog senses and re¬ 
covered her memory,” commented Celia. 

97 


98 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Dorothy, inwardly reminiscent of her last experi¬ 
ence with Jerry, was all for another ramble; with be¬ 
guiling barks, leaps, and suggestive runs to the door 
and then back to Jerry, she said as plainly as though 
she had words to her tongue that the house was no 
place to remain in on a day like this. 

“Poor dear,” said Celia, “she must have missed her 
daily outings with me in Charon or on foot.” 

“Shall we give in?” asked Jerry, feeling any action 
would be a relief. “What about a walk?” 

“I’d love it. I’d almost forgotten there is an out of 
doors. This house has become horrible—a prison.” 
Celia sighed, and Jerry’s heart instantly warmed a 
little toward her. His sympathies were easily stirred. 

With Dorothy bounding ahead like a Jack rabbit 
they set forth down the lane. After a rather long and 
thoughtful silence, Celia said: “Mr. Coolie has been 
most kind. He has spent every moment he could 
spare with me since—since everything happened. He 
realizes how heavily time will now hang on my hands 
and he is going to permit me to help him. I can help 
in many ways, you see, in parochial affairs, though it 
had never occurred to me until he pointed it out.” 

“What do you do when you help?” asked Jerry 
vaguely, and without interest. 

“Oh, it seems that the field is almost limitless,” said 
Celia. “In fact, my head is whirling with visions of 
all the new spheres of usefulness he has opened up to 
me. To begin with, I am to have the infant class in 
the parish Sunday school.” 

“Lord! that would terrify me stiff,” declared Jerry, 
“but I suppose you are up on all that sort of thing.” 

“Not in the least,” confessed Celia. “You see, father 
is rather queer about—well, religious matters—that is, 
he doesn’t concern himself awfully with them, and he 
has never encouraged mother or me to any great ac- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


99 


tivity in the parish. He, of course, contributes largely, 
but I think that is simply because he believes in up¬ 
holding all institutions of the State. Then unfortu¬ 
nately he doesn’t like the vicar—you see, the vicar is 
not exactly well-bred, and father doesn't understand 
Mr. Coolie. Why, he once actually said he believed, 
with Mr. Coolie the Church of England came first, tea 
second, and the British Empire third.” 

Jerry laughed, and felt that Sir Wilfred must have 
a good deal of perspicacity, only he didn’t use that 
word. 

“He really doesn’t know Mr. Coolie—not as I do,” 
defended Celia. “Mr. Coolie is going to give me daily 
instruction in doctrinal matters—in short, I am to enter 
a sort of infant class myself, so I’ll be prepared to take 
over the real infants. Then he wants me to take charge 
of a needlework guild.” 

“What do they do?” asked Jerry, feeling bored to 
death with the ecclesiastical trend of the conversation. 

“Make garments for the heathen,” said Celia. 

It seemed sheer impertinence to Jerry to make gar¬ 
ments for the heathen—in fact, to interfere with the 
lives of the heathen in any fashion, but he held his 
tongue. 

Celia was talking again. “Then there is district vis¬ 
iting to be done and for home work—just for off hours, 
you understand—I am to be given stoles and surplices 
and altar cloths to embroider.” 

“I wouldn’t think there’d be any off hours,” said 
Jerry dryly. It all sounded to him like set tasks of 
penance. And why should Celia be subjected to 
penance because cast down temporarily by a natural 
sorrow for the loss of her mother? But it was none of 
his business. If Celia’s father put up with this nonsense 
it certainly wasn’t Jerry’s place to interfere. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


£00 

“Mr. Coolie is always so inspiring/’ said Celia. “He 
makes one feel like going forth to conquer.” 

“He certainly does make one feel like fighting,” said 
Jerry. 

Celia looked a little troubled for a moment, as though 
trying to fit the tone and Jerry’s expression to his 
words. She lapsed into a silence, probably filled with 
anticipatory parish activities, and heaped with em¬ 
broidery silks, while Jerry on his part was mentally 
rehearsing words he had been saying over to himself 
for days. This was his chance to say them. They had 
to be said sometime. 

“Celia,” he began, with a nervous hammering in his 
ears, “may I talk to you—about ourselves?” 

Without looking at him, Celia murmured an assent. 

“First of all,” said Jerry, “you must know that Aunt 
Felicity has told me—of much that I would not other¬ 
wise have been in a position to realize because—be¬ 
cause of the defect in my memory. It’s that very de¬ 
fect I must talk to you about. I feel the difficulty of 
your position. . . . Lord! it must be rotten for you. 
... I want you to know how grateful I am for—for 
the honour you’ve done me—that is, the trust you’ve 
put in me. ... I feel so darned unworthy-” 

Celia was listening, but she said nothing to help out 
or encourage. 

“To begin with,” Jerry went on, “I feel that my po¬ 
sition—I mean condition—rather unfits me for the— 
that is, I don’t feel I should be given the responsibility 
of any woman’s future. You must realize that having 
once suffered from this—this affliction, I may again be 
seized with it—I mean I might lose my memory again.” 

“Or you might recover it,” interrupted Celia. 

“I may, and that’s just the point I want to make. 
I’ve thought this thing over till I’m dizzy and I’ve al¬ 
most gone batty, but I’ve reached one decision. It’s 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


xoi 


the only fair one—to you. Whatever my personal de¬ 
sires in the matter may be—they’ve got nothing to do 
with it. I cannot let you marry me until my memory is 
natural—until it comes back. When that day dawns, 
and I can come to you with a clear conscience and a 
clear head and ask you to share my life—then it will be 
a different matter. But I can’t and won’t let any woman 
take to herself a past that is unknown to her—and that 
is what I represent to you this minute. Nor can I let 
any woman share a future as uncertain as mine—as the 
future I’m facing myself.” 

Celia walked toward a lichen-covered stone by the 
hedge and motioned Jerry to sit beside her. 

“Thank you, Monty, for all you’ve said. It was 
good of you to think so much of me and so little of 
yourself. I appreciate it, and frankly it makes things 
easier for me—relieves my mind. You see, I too have 
had my misgivings, and I might as well make a clean 
breast of everything. I’ll have to rather bare my 
heart to you, but ...” 

Jerry took her hand gently, with a desire to convey 
sympathy. Celia did not repulse him. 

“You see,” said she, “I was a mere child when you 
went away—only nineteen. I had never known any 
boy as intimately as I had known you—all our earliest 
memories were identical and all our life associations 
were the same. . . ., Then there was the glamour of 
the girl-and-boy love affair between us—kept secret 
until we were discovered, and then almost thrown at 
each other by our respective families! Then you 
got into trouble. ... All the feminine in me—the 
protective—was up in arms in your defence. Then 
you disappeared. . . Can’t you see?—you became 

the figure of romance—because of your disappearance 
and the cloud under which you had gone. A woman’s 
a queer creature. I don’t now believe that I was 



102 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


ever really in love with you until you disappeared. 
A woman’s imagination and loyalty can do strange 
things with her heart. Every memory of you was 
fertilized by a romantic imagination; all your 
ordinary qualities took on a transcendent perfection. 
I idealized you out of all resemblance to the real you. 
This abnormal work of the imagination continued 
through six years—continued subconsciously even 
through the preoccupation of war. But I think I 
grew up more during the war than I realized—one 
developed, matured more in one month in France 
than in a year of peace in England. I think I found 
out how much I had grown up—or rather outgrown 
—only when you came back. . . . 

“You came back the same Monty—that is, out¬ 
wardly you were very little changed—only older—and 
you probably possessed all the same fundamental 
qualities of character, but you were not the Monty 
which my absurd imagination had created during 
those years of absence.” 

“I see,” said Jerry. “And,” he added, with a 
curious lightness of heart, “you find you don’t love 
me.” 

“I don’t know what I find,” Celia confessed. 
“That’s the difficulty. I certainly have an affection 
for you—it comes to me suddenly sometimes when 
I look at you and you don’t speak, but there’s no—no 
thrill—none of the romance I felt when I used to think 
of you and imagine what it would be like when you 
did return. ...” 

“When I speak it disappears—the illusion of—of 
affection?” asked Jerry. 

“Well, yes, it does. You see, your voice seems 
different from my memory of it. Your way of talk¬ 
ing—so much less Americanized-Oxford, so much 
more—so to speak—cinema-American. Why, even 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


103 


your handwriting is different—changed, grown bolder, 
and more—I hate the word—but artistic. When I 
saw the card which came with the violets—for which, 
by the way, I haven't yet thanked you—it gave me 
the same sensation which I had that morning in 
the car—that you were a stranger—not the old 
Monty. ...” 

Jerry got out a cigarette and smoked. The con¬ 
versation made him feel disagreeably close to the edge 
of a precipice. 

Celia laid a hand on his free one. 

“Don't think I don’t want to play cricket. . . . 
I'm game, but we've got to face the facts. What are 
we going to do?” 

“God knows!” said Jerry. “It's up to you. I'll 
do anything you want. Think about yourself—don’t 
consider me—I’m not worth it.” 

With a quick impulse of the recrudescence of some¬ 
thing left over, Celia put her arms about his neck. 

“Oh, Monty, forgive me. I've hurt you. I’ve 
been thinking and talking a heap of bunkum. I must 
still care—surely I must after all these years. ... The 
fault must lie in me—in some sentimental, absurd 
romantic substance in my character. Then perhaps 
I'm only overwrought. I've suffered so much this 
past week. ...” 

Jerry put his arms around her and held her to him 
in a mute agony of internal chaos. This softened, 
humanized Celia was a difficult proposition. 

“My dear,” he said at last, “it's not your fault. 
It’s mine and Fate’s. We are tangled up in a barbed- 
wire contraption set by the gods and we've just got 
to stay put, whether we like it or not—for the present. 
Let tie future solve our problem. We can't. For 
the present, think of me as on probation. If the old 
love returns—-in you for me—then I'm yours—when 


104 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


my mind gets normal, my memory comes back, and 
I know—know just where I’m standing. We can’t 
do any more—now can we?” 

“No,” said Celia. “But it’s all just our secret, 
Monty, isn’t it—my ridiculous misgivings and your— 
your self-distrust? We’ll keep up the bluff of feeling 
like the normally engaged, won’t we?—for father’s and 
Miss Felicity’s sake.” 

“Sure,” said Jerry. Celia held her face up as a child 
might to its benefactor and Jerry knew what was ex¬ 
pected of him. 

lie hesitated only a second, then bent his head and 
kissed her. He felt no more emotion than if he had 
kissed Aunt Felicity. 

Celia’s face flushed, and she withdrew with a sensa¬ 
tion of having experienced a profanation. It was as 
though a passing stranger in the streets had laid his 
lips on hers. 

She sprang up and whistled for Dorothy Perkins. 

“I’m going.” 

Jerry rose. 

“You won’t mind if I ask you to let me go alone,” 
she begged. 

Jerry reseated himself and lit another cigarette. 

He liked Celia better at that moment than he had 
ever liked her before. She had tact. She realized that 
he needed to be alone. His deduction was masculine. 
Her impulse of flight was feminine. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Jerry awoke on Wednesday morning with a thrill as 
he told himself, with a fanfare of trumpets in his heart, 
“This is the day of Polly’s arrival! ” 

He felt the excitement which coursed through his 
veins to be almost unaccountable. It must surely be 
simply the lure of the mysterious. Every one had 
been at such pains to keep Polly and her advent a 
secret. His imagination had been fashioning a fantas¬ 
tic fabric around the thought of Polly ever since he had 
overheard the fragment of conversation between Aunt 
Felicity and Celia that first night. The next link was 
the sentence dropped by Celia on the drive, then came 
the discovery of the photographs, to be followed by the 
overheard remark of Paynter to Wiggs about the cross¬ 
ing of the unknown voyager. He, it appeared, was the 
goal to which Polly was sailing, while Polly to him had 
become the centre from which his every thought radi¬ 
ated. 

He had looked at the photograph so often, he could 
now see it with his eyes shut. He did not pretend to 
himself that he was in love with a mere photograph— 
that would be absurd. He doubted if he’d ever fall 
in love with any one. Yet even he had his ideas of the 
thing—he thought he had enough imagination to pic¬ 
ture what love would be like, if it ever came. He 
certainly knew enough to know that the sympathy, and 
even tenderness, which he at times felt for the girl to 
whom he had been involuntarily betrothed, was not 
love—that amazing emotion for which men had abdi- 
105 


106 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

cated thrones, wrecked homes, sacrificed honour, died 
of despair. 

No, he knew nothing of the passion which deals 
only in extremes. 

But of course even a self-contained unit—such as he 
deemed himself—had ideals. He knew what he liked 
in women, he knew what he wished they would look 
like, and he did not see why all of them seemed to vary 
so far from his ideas on the subject. It just chanced 
to be a happy coincidence that this photograph of 
Polly looked like the notion he had had of what a 
really lovely girl ought to look like. But she’d no 
doubt be disappointing when she came to life. . . . 
She’d probably have violently wrong political opinions, 
be obsessed about saving something—heathen or white 
slaves—or be mentally squeegeed on the subject of 
reincarnation. He’d met girls with the faces of Dres¬ 
den shepherdesses, who had turned out to be loaded. 
The most flippant-looking bit of fluff would probably 
inundate you with seas of erudition—the possessor of 
a dozen dimples might lilt occult catch phrases. The 
girl of to-day was always full of surprises. The one 
thing she wasn’t full of was charm . 

Now, there was Celia—good-looking enough girl, 
knew how to wear her clothes, had character, too, and 
her war record was brilliant. But, hang it all, she 
hadn’t an ounce of charm! So, after all, the thing 
simmered down to personality—and a personality which 
somehow, even if it didn’t embody your previous ideal, 
might fascinate you into the formulation of new ones. 
However, even if he found no fascination in Celia, he 
now liked her. He felt on comfortable terms with her 
and himself since that clearing-the-deck talk. Since 
that talk he had felt somehow shriven. What a singu¬ 
lar position was his—that of having to play a role of 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


107 

sheer deception with the instincts of an honest man. 
It required a preposterous attitude of straddle. 

Then, too, he found within himself the stirring of 
new, strange things—it must be England getting hold 
of him. . . . He felt a curiously quixotic pride in the 
name he bore, he felt an obligation to keep the 
escutcheon of Trevider unsullied—he couldn’t have felt 
more responsibility of family had he been born at 
Tolvean. He’d been forced by Fate to wear the motley 
of Trevider, but, by Heaven, he’d wear it proudly and 
as decently as a man could in a false position! He 
owed that to Miss Felicity, and to the girl whose destiny 
had been linked with his by the hand of death itself. 
And he owed it—the fact came to him startlingly for 
the first time—to the absent Montagu Trevider him¬ 
self. 

Jerry had a sudden weird fantasy—a vision of him¬ 
self after death, before the Judgment Seat, giving an 
account of the lives and souls of an inextricably 
mingled, indivisible, hyphenated being—a composite 
Montagu Trevider-Jerry Middleton. 

This thought came to him inappropriately sand¬ 
wiched between toast and marmalade at breakfast. It 
was dispersed by Miss Felicity, who brought him back 
to the immediate present by a request that he would 
join her in her morning-room after he had finished his 
coffee and cigarette. 

He found the little lady with the frown between her 
brows which always denoted struggle with serious mat¬ 
ters of sorts. She held a letter. 

“From our solicitor, Mr. Keylock,” she explained. 

Jerry had visions of old debts or other old scandals 
of the real Montagu Trevider coming to light about 
which he realized he felt, or would feel, a peculiar re¬ 
sponsibility. 

“It’s about your allowance, my dear,” said Miss Fe- 


108 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

licity. “It’s all arranged. Sufficient stocks, bonds, and 
other securities have been made over to you—there are 
some papers here for us both to sign, which I can’t make 
head or tail of. You will be assured an income of five 
hundred a year. But, since I have written Mr. Key¬ 
lock, I’ve had misgivings about the amount. Of course 
you have no living expenses here, but I’ve wondered if 
five hundred is really enough.” 

Jerry stared. He was mentally translating pounds 
into dollars and gasping inwardly. 

“You see, Monty, I don’t want to seem niggardly— 
yet I don’t want to encourage you in extravagance, but 
you mustn’t feel you need curb any of your natural 
tastes for sport. If you want a new hunter, I’ll pay for 
it. I have always said you came by your fondness for 
horses naturally. It’s in the blood. My poor dear 
father had it—incurably. And as for the disposition to 
gamble—how could you help it, in face of the family 
history? That I’ve always said to myself and others. 
All I ask of you, dear, is to try to keep within the allow¬ 
ance for the present. If after six months you find it 
insufficient, come and tell me so frankly—only don’t 
run into debt again and, above all things, don’t borrow 
from outsiders. It’s so humiliating to me, my dear.” 

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Jerry, blushing with shame 
for the past sins of Montagu Trevider, exposed by the 
words of the gentle Miss Felicity. “Great guns, Aunt 

Felicity! what an infernal skunk-” He broke off 

abruptly just in time. “How can you love me—how 
can you put up with me at all if you think I could be 
capable of-” 

“Ah, Monty, love isn’t killed by such trifles as— 
well, indiscretions. Youth must have its fling—that is, 
male youth. And I believe you are sobered down 
into a sensible, well-balanced man—the Treviders al¬ 
ways do, when they have been given time. The only 





FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


109 


trouble was they wouldn’t always give themselves time 
—there was your poor uncle, my dear brother Cecil. 

. . Miss Felicity paused, and her eyes were filled 
with an old pain. She seemed to pull herself with effort 
back to the subject under hand. “I had the eyes of 
prophecy where you were concerned—even in the days 
when you were all nebulous. I could see you just as 
I believe you to be to-day—a solid man of fine char¬ 
acter. I felt you were groping, experimenting, trying 
out your inherited traits—but I knew the hand of time 
would do its work satisfactorily, as it always has in the 
case of the men of our family. I never forgot you were 
a Trevider.” 

Jerry sighed, feeling bowed under the weight of 
Monty’s iniquities of the past now transferred to his 
shoulders. “But five hundred pounds. . . . Why, Aunt 
Felicity, it’s far too much. I can’t think of taking it.” 

“My dear boy, how absurd. It will probably all be 
yours some day, unless—well, unless the very improb¬ 
able happens, and there’s no use going into that now. 

. . . When I’m gone-” 

“Don’t,” interrupted Jerry; “I can’t bear the 
thought. Look here, Aunt Felicity, you mean an awful 
lot to me. I’ll be hanged if I can think of life without 
you now—just after this short time—I mean since my 
return. Why, I’d rather have your respect, trust, and 
love than to own the whole county of Cornwall.” 

Miss Felicity beamed under the sincerity of Jerry’s 
words and wished she had made the allowance a thou¬ 
sand a year. The estate could well afford it, and this 
new Monty was to be trusted. She rose, kissed him 
warmly, and handed him a cheque-book. “You need 
never show it me—spend it as you will, Monty. I have 
no misgivings.” 

Jerry held the cheque-book as though it were red hot 
and his fingers were scorched by the contact. His next 


no 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


crime must be to forge another man’s name! His whole 
nature revolted at the thought. Yet he was ostensibly 
Monty Trevider. As Monty Trevider he ate food, wore 
clothes, accepted the service of Wiggs, for which Miss 
Felicity paid. To sign another man’s name and there¬ 
by obtain money was, after all, ethically no worse than 
the sins which, by his silence, he daily committed 
against this dear innocent woman. “In for a penny in 
for a pound. . . .” 

Miss Felicity watched the varying emotions warring 
on the battlefield of Jerry’s face. She wondered what 
the trouble could be. 

“I can’t thank you, Aunt Felicity,” stammered Jerry. 
“Your generosity and goodness just gets my goat. If 
you think I’m taking all this easily, you’ve got another 
think coming. I’d rather lick my weight in wild cata¬ 
mounts than sign one of these cheques. I feel my in¬ 
debtedness to you is already so enormous that to take 
another farthing is just plain robbery.” 

“Now, Monty dear, you’re surely not worrying about 
that thousand. Why, you silly boy! Don’t you realize 
that has been more than covered by your unspent al¬ 
lowance, which has been accumulating during all the 
six years you’ve been away? It’s not like you to worry 
over such trifles. It worries me. It shows you are still 
far from normal.” 

“Then Heaven forbid that I’ll ever grow normal 
again,” said Jerry, as with resignation he slipped the 
cheque-book into his pocket. 

“I suppose the first cheque you’ll draw will be for 
the ring—your engagement ring,” said Miss Felicity, 
with a coquettish attempt at raillery. “I was going to 
suggest that you have several sent down from Plymouth 
for Celia’s choice. Shall I order them for you? We 
have always dealt with Leek, Page, & Leek. My 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


hi 


mother’s engagement ring came from the old firm, and 
so I thought ...” 

“Yes, do please. It was good of you to remind me. 
But I leave so much to you, Aunt Felicity.” Jerry felt 
like a hopeless fly in the spider’s web. 

“It will give me happiness to do this for you. It 
gives me quite a flutter to dabble in a romance. You 
see, I never had a romance of my own! I think that is 
why I enjoy others’ so much. It is beautiful to think 
of you and Celia reunited after all these years. It’s so 
like a love story—a Daily Mail feuilleton. And you are 
happy, Monty?” 

“Bursting with joy!” cried Jerry as he rushed from 
the room and closed the door just in time to smother 
his sardonic laugh of misery and shame. 


CHAPTER XV 


Just as he was about to ascend the stairs to his 
floor, Jerry became aware of an open door—the door 
of the room opposite Miss Felicity’s morning or sitting 
room. He had never seen that door open before. He 
stopped and looked in. There was a soft radiance of 
blush filling the room. The sun filtered through rose 
silk curtains. A quaint little Elizabethan, dark oak, 
four-post bed was hung with the same warm rose 
silk. The upholstery of chairs and lounge was chintz, 
beflowered with pink rosebuds. 

Jerry knew it to be the nest of Polly. 

Alice, the housemaid, was within, brandishing a 
broom under the superintendence of Paynter. 

Jerry heard his name mentioned. Said Paynter: 

a He do be looking wisht. Seems to be in a bitter way 
about somethin’.” 

“P’r’aps ’is hurted head be troublin’ of ’im,” sug¬ 
gested Alice. 

“P’r’aps,” said Paynter. “But Miss Polly will be 
for makin’ ’im forget ’e’s got a head. Lay a fire, Alice. 
A bit o’ flame will take the damp out. Miss Polty do be 
a chilly sort, ’ee knaws.” 

Paynter came out, and on seeing Jerry assumed a 
veneer of unflurried inconsequence. With a “Good 
morn’, sir. Lovely day, sir,” she disappeared into Miss 
Trevider’s sanctum. 

When Jerry reached his own room, Wiggs was no¬ 
where to be seen. Not that he needed him, but some¬ 
how the place seemed incomplete without the hovering 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


ii3 

of Wiggs. Evidently Wiggs had been diverted from 
his usual sphere of activity to lend a hand in the general 
domestic cataclysm of getting ready for Polly. Jerry’s 
things were flung about the untidied room, giving it an 
abandoned air. 

He cleared a chair, sat down, took up a day before’s 
paper, and looked over the schedule of the sailings and 
arrivals of ships. 

He had overheard Miss Felicity say something about 
the hour when the boat would get into Plymouth. If 
it was Plymouth, then Polly must be coming on the 
Dutch line. Yes, here was a boat touching at Plymouth 
this morning. Then Polly could catch the Riviera. 
She’d be at Tolvean by six that evening. ... He 
looked at the blandly cherubic face of the mantel clock. 
Only ten now. . . . Eight hours to face. Eight hours 
to kill. It would be a long day. 

Jerry restlessly started downstairs. As he passed 
through the house he felt the inadequately suppressed 
excitement permeating everything. In the hall he met 
Wiggs, hands holding flower-filled vases, which he was 
carrying toward the drawing-room. 

“You weren’t needing me, sir, were you?” inquired 
Wiggs guiltily, with an actual expression—the shame¬ 
faced look of one caught in unseemly employment. 

“No,” said Jerry, steadfastly ignoring the flowers. 
“I’m off for a walk.” 

That Wiggs would descend to the arrangement of 
flowers for the expected Polly told Jerry much of the 
evidently enslaving charms of that young lady. 

He was the only one who hadn’t a finger in that all- 
absorbing pie. He felt queerly lonely—an outsider. 

He strayed aimlessly down past the fuchsia hedge 
to the rose garden. It was now mostly a stretch of 
bare thorny branches, with only here and there a bush 
bravely holding on to its summer dress of leaves. A 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


114 

glint of white under a thatch of deep green caught his 
eye. He stooped and found a large, beautiful white 
bud—the last rose of summer. 

Jerry looked behind him. He glanced up toward 
the windows of the house. Then he took out his knife 
and, with the air of a boy doing something he is 
ashamed of, cut the stem and hastily slipped the rose 
into the capacious pocket of his coat. 

He strolled about with deliberate aimlessness for 
some minutes, then retraced his steps toward the 
house. He went noiselessly through the deserted hall, 
slipped quietly up the stairs, and then stood at the top 
listening. Voices came to him from somewhere far 
below—the voices of Miss Felicity and Paynter in con¬ 
ference. Overhead he heard the footsteps of Wiggs. 
A broom in Alice’s hands was swishing the carpet of 
the upper corridor. The coast was clear. The opportu¬ 
nity was his. 

Softly turning the handle of the closed door facing 
him, the next moment found him within the sanctuary 
of Polly. 

Jerry had never felt so shy in his life. 

He restrained his eyes from any intimate investiga¬ 
tion of his surroundings. His glance strayed only suffi¬ 
ciently for the purpose of the moment—the discovery of 
some receptacle for his offering on the shrine of Polly. 
There it was, on a diminutive desk, a slender lovely 
thing of silver and glass. He seized the vase and filled 
it from the ewer, running it over in his nervousness. 
With his handkerchief he mopped up the dark, tell-tale 
mess on the pink carpet; then with a serious air with¬ 
drew the bud from his pocket and replaced the now 
adorned vase on the desk. 

Jerry told himself it was a silly performance—he 
was getting to be a perfect sissy—but he also realized 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


ii5 

that this silly secret act had given him the first sensa¬ 
tion of happiness he had experienced for days. 

Like a conspirator he tiptoed to the door, listened, 
then stealthily made his exit. Once again in the hall, 
his air-starved lungs made him realize he had not 
breathed properly for several minutes; his heart beat 
like a rapid-fire gun, and his forehead was damp. With 
a leap he was up the stairs, down the corridor, and be¬ 
hind his own slammed door. 

“Safe!” he ejaculated aloud, and turned to find 
Wiggs staring at him. Jerry realized he must have all 
the appearance of the pursued reaching cover. For 
the first time he felt abashed in the presence of Wiggs. 
With a short, nervous laugh he rushed over to the desk 
and began pawing things with the air of one who has 
misplaced something valuable. 

Wiggs gave a sigh. It somehow infuriated Jerry. 
His nerves were raw. He turned on his servant and 
said sharply: “Can’t you see I want to be alone?” 

Wiggs withdrew with a murmured apology, which 
left Jerry plunged in the depths of humiliation. He 
had never before spoken rudely to a servant. He 
considered that the last word in ill-breeding. It was 
taking advantage of your position. 

Quite miserable, Jerry tried to retrieve himself in 
his own eyes, to pull himself up to the level again, by 
cigarettes innumerable and a final tall Scotch. 

He went down to lunch with a slight headache, but a 
fairly reinstated opinion of himself. 

Miss Felicity could not disguise her inner state of 
perturbation. She left the table thrice to give suddenly- 
thought-of orders to Paynter. 

The afternoon dragged its leaden minutes inter¬ 
minably. Jerry began and discarded three books. 
Even Locke with The Glory of Clementina Wing could 
not hold his interest. He smoked more and more, and 


n6 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

again resorted to Scotch. Just as he had decided he 
now knew how intolerable eternity itself would be, 
when one had to face it, Jerry heard wheels on the 
gravel of the drive. Miss Felicity got in the carriage. 
She was evidently going to the station at Trewarthenith 
to meet Polly. 

Jerry rang the bell. 

“I’m going to dress for dinner,” he announced to 
Wiggs, whom he had not seen since the curt dismissal 
of the forenoon. 

Wiggs, ignoring the prematureness of the hour, set 
about getting studs and buttons into place. 

Jerry felt he owed Wiggs especial consideration to 
make amends, but the harder he tried to be decent the 
nastier he became. He cut himself when he shaved, 
and blamed Wiggs. He declared the shirt prepared 
was too big in the neck. Wiggs did not argue. He got 
out another. Jerry discovered an infinitesimal bubble 
on the front and refused to wear it. The sleeves of 
the third were too long. He challenged Wiggs to dis¬ 
pute it. Wiggs left the statement uncontradicted and 
prepared a fourth. His patience won out. Jerry, seized 
with shame, accepted the fourth without inspection. 

The toilet took longer than any he had ever made, 
and brought less satisfaction when completed. Jerry 
walked from the mirror of the dressing-table to the 
mirror of the wardrobe. He retied the bow at his 
neck. The ingenuous vanity of his behaviour did not 
occur to him. Just as Wiggs handed him a shaken- 
out handkerchief Jerry’s ears caught the sound of 
wheels. His heart gave a leap. The carriage was 
stopping before the door. His impulse was to dash 
to the window. No. He’d play fair. He picked up 
a book and sat down to face another eternity and an¬ 
other cigarette. 

He had just killed the stump when Wiggs re-entered 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


117 

and solemnly announced, but with a suppressed tremor 
of voice, that Miss Trevider requested the master’s 
presence in the drawing-room. 

The hour had come—the hour toward which every 
moment of the day had crescendoed. Jerry rose. His 
legs felt queer and unstable. His heart was behaving 
ridiculously. All the blood in his body seemed to race 
to his face, then go in a cascading sort of waterfall 
down his spine. He actually had to touch the balustrade 
to steady himself as he descended the stairs. 

Arrived in the great hall, he stood still to get himself 
more in grip, and also to taste to the last drop the 
wonder of that expectation-laden last moment before 
the actual realization. 

Toward the door of the drawing-room he walked. 
He stopped midway in the door. With her back to the 
fire stood the original of the photograph—an original 
far lovelier than ever his imaginings had pictured. 

A lightning communication passed from eye to eye. 
Jerry took a step forward as he heard himself involun¬ 
tarily cry, “Polly!” 

A low, joyous sound came from the girl’s lips as, 
with fluttering arms, she flew to meet him. In another 
second her arms were about his neck and her face 
buried somewhere about where his heart was madly 
trying to burst from his body. She half sobbed, half 
laughed: “You knew me—you knew me! Oh, Monty 
darling, kiss me—kiss me a thousand times!” 

She put both hands on his chest to push him off for 
another look in the eyes, then the arms flung them¬ 
selves again upward, the hands interlaced behind, and 
she stretched herself to reach his mouth. 

She kissed him. 

To Jerry it was as if the world had been thrown out 
of its orbit. Planets seemed to be colliding in sidereal 
space. 


n8 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

He came to. His arms imprisoned her, as if he 
never again would lose her even for a second. He 
found her lips with the hungry eagerness that the dying- 
with-thirst might touch the life-saving water. He 
kissed her, forgetting all but the ecstasy of the contact. 
He forgot time—everything that would bring that rap¬ 
ture to an end. 

He became conscious that the girl was struggling 
weakly, tremblingly, to disengage her lips and body. 
He suddenly realized that the savage vice of his arms 
must be hurting her. The arms dropped limply to his 
side and he stood quivering and pale, gazing into 
startled eyes. 

The girl, too, was pale. In mid-kiss her feminine 
instinct had subtly recognized a strange hitherto un¬ 
known quality. The continuance of the kiss ought 
to have been a complete revelation, but it did not go 
beyond a troubling suggestion to senses which were too 
unprepared to cope with the emotions incontinently 
thrust upon them. Her blood thrilled affrightedly, 
warningly. She could not realize or name the thing 
which the kiss seemed to embody. It terrified. It 
lacked all the sweet, warm comfort of the dear normal 
kiss of relationship; it held something overwhelmingly 
tremendous and inexplicable. Her cheeks grew hot, 
her head drooped. The next second she had turned 
with a nervous little laugh and was out of the room. 
Jerry turned too, and like a creature bereft of his 
senses fled after her. Near the top of the stairs he 
heard a door bang. He stood transfixed, staring at the 
door of Polly’s room. He continued to stand as one in 
a trance for almost a minute, then with the sudden 
weakness of the old and infirm climbed the stairs. 

In his own room he found Wiggs replacing discarded 
shirts in a drawer. He took his servant by the shoul¬ 
ders and turned him about. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 119 

“Wiggs, tell me—who is Miss Polly ?” 

“Why, your sister, to be sure, sir,” responded Wiggs. 

“Good God!” said Jerry as he fell limply into the 
nearest chair. And he’d kissed his “sister” like that . 

With that kiss Jerry had come into the full knowl¬ 
edge of love—that transcendental emotion which is so 
much physical, so much spiritual, so pathetically hu¬ 
man, so majestically divine. 


CHAPTER XVI 


In her own room sat Polly, still hatted, just as she 
had arrived from the station. Her hat sat at a drunken 
angle over the right ear, giving the girl a dishevelled 
look. She felt dishevelled. The unexpected violence 
of that kiss had put all her being awry. 

Polly was still palpitant with the strange emotions 
engendered by Jerry’s embrace. Of course, she argued, 
it was but the natural excitement and thrill of getting 
Monty back which made her feel so queer. The same 
conditions had made Monty behave so queerly, so im¬ 
moderately. But there had been a strange lack of 
familiarity, yet a devastating sense of familiarity of 
another kind in his touch. What was it? she queried 
again. But, she reminded herself, he had recognized 
her instantly. He had called her name, the moment his 
eyes met hers. And Aunt Felicity had assured her 
that the fact of her coming had been kept a secret, that 
her name had not once been mentioned within his hear¬ 
ing. Of course it was all right. Of course he was her 
own, her very own dear Monty. But it was all so dis¬ 
concertingly queer—everything connected with his re¬ 
turn—now that one considered it calmly. . . . What 
proof was there? There was, of course, not a doubt 
about his appearance—Monty to the life, only older, 
more serious. Yet might not even the amazing resem¬ 
blance be but some weird coincidence? One did hear 
of such things. 

“Still he remembered me,” sighed Polly. “That’s 
proof, surely. Oh dear! why can’t I be certain about 
120 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


121 


it all? . . . Aunt Felicity has no misgivings. And no 
one else, apparently, for she tells me Celia is again en¬ 
gaged to him. Of course it must be all right. He cried 
Tolly’ so joyfully. Nobody could have faked the 
surprise, the—the something wonderful of that cry. I 
feel a perfect dog to be suspicious. . . . It’s just be¬ 
cause I haven’t seen him for so long. That’s it. That’s 
why he seems so like a—stranger. But the way he 
looked at me. . . . Monty never looked at me like that. 
His eyes seemed to burn clear through me—just as his 
kiss did. . . .” Polly’s thoughts broke off in confusion. 
She rose and removed her hat. Again her thoughts 
brought her to a standstill. Aunt Felicity felt so sure. 
She had said that Monty was just the same lovable 
Monty, but so improved, so much more manly and fine. 
It was, of course, absurd to be doubting—it was des¬ 
picable, disloyal. She ought to be revelling in the joy 
of having him again—above all, in the fact that he had 
remembered her. Why, if he’d done that, then it meant 
his memory was restored—everything else would come 
back to him and he’d be able to explain it all. 

Her thoughts were now off on another tangent. She 
recalled that last ride she had had with Monty, the day 
before the heavens fell. It seemed so long, long ago. 
.. . . With that memory she was flooded with the poign¬ 
ant recollection of all she had then suffered—the first 
awful grief, when days and days passed and no Monty 
returned. The torture had made her sixteen years feel 
sixty. Polly’s heart melted with tenderness. She was 
a beast to have one doubt—an ingrate. However 
fraught with mystery the discovery of him in London by 
Aunt Felicity had been, it was a subject for heavenly 
happiness. 

At that moment her roaming eye caught sight of 
the rose. She bent and whiffed it deeply. It somehow 
seemed to hold the combined scent of home and Eng- 


122 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


land. She stretched her arms over her head and thought 
how good it was to be home. 

Outside the rooks were conversing noisily, as they 
settled down in the old ivy-covered tree near Polly’s 
window, where, she remembered, they had always come 
at just this time of the evening ever since her first 
visit to Aunt Felicity, when she was a little girl. 

A rap, and Alice entered to offer her services as tem¬ 
porary maid. Would Miss Polly dress for dinner? 
Miss Felicity had sent word not to bother to change if 
she felt too tired. 

“No. I want to dress,” said Polly, as she thought 
of this first dinner with Monty. It was an event and 
must be celebrated fittingly. 

In half an hour, arrayed in the loveliest evening frock 
she possessed—a shrimp-pink crepe de chine—and the 
white rose at her waist, she tripped down the stairs, 
all doubts banished from her mind. 

Polly paused at the threshold of the drawing-room 
and took a long look at the remembered sweetness of 
the dear room, with its glowing heart of fire—its Cor¬ 
nish “bit o’ flamme.” There was the same gay chintz, 
mellowed and faded by its many launderings; there 
were the same familiar brasses and silver things, shin¬ 
ing from their appointed places, and the air held the 
same remembered odour of violets. Oh! but it was 
good to get back to it all. It was so English, so always- 
had-been and so ever-would-be. 

Polly had not stirred—only her eyes had wandered 
•—and she thought herself alone. She was startled by 
hearing a deep, melancholy sigh. Then she saw the 
figure, hunched low and brooding in the great saddle¬ 
back chair before the fire. 

Tiptoeing slyly across the thick carpet, she reached 
the back of the chair without its occupant realizing her 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


123 

nearness. She playfully put both hands over Jerry’s 
eyes and whispered in his ear: 

“Guess.” 

Jerry gave a momentary start, then answered: 

“Polly! Of course it’s you.” He possessed himself 
of both her hands. 

She leant over and kissed the thick, coarse, vigorous 
hair, then slid on to the arm of his chair. She turned 
his face to the light. 

“Let me have a good long look at you, Monty, to 
be sure you are real, and not a make-believe—some¬ 
body who’ll vanish again before my very eyes.” 

Jerry had never, even during the war, endured a 
more trying ordeal of nerves than that which he ex¬ 
perienced during the good long look. It was impossible 
to take a good long look at Polly without going off his 
head again and wanting to smother her with kisses. 
He nervously diverted his eyes, then, as he laughed, 
and forced himself to look back into her eyes, said: 
“Very real. Pinch me and see.” 

“Old cat eyes!” she laughed fondly, as she nestled 
against him and entwined an arm about his neck. Of 
course it was her Monty. What a fool she’d been! 

“Do you remember our old game of: ‘Who’ you 
love?’ ” 

“No,” acknowledged Jerry. “ ’Fraid I don’t. Teach 
it to me again, won’t you?” 

“Oh dear, to think of your forgetting that! Well, 
I suppose I must begin. No, you begin. Ask me—but 
you must whisper it, of course—ask me whom I love.” 

Jerry put his lips to her ear. Oh! damn it all! Here 
he was stricken with fever again. He’d have to get 
the curb bit on. Here goes. “Who’ you love?” he 
asked in a ridiculously tremulous whisper. 

“Wiggs!” laughed Polly. 

“O Lord!” said Jerry. “Surely not.” 


124 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


“Silly thing,” cried Polly. Then she prompted in a 
stage whisper: “Ask me again.” 

“Whom do you really love?” queried Jerry, this time 
safely, far from the maddening ear of Polly. 

“Sir Wilfred!” declared Polly emphatically. 

“I don’t believe it,” said Jerry indignantly. “Now 
I’ll punish you—somehow, if you don’t tell me quickly 
whom you really-and-truly, hope-to-die-cross-your- 
heart-and-spit, love.” 

Polly’s other arm flew about his neck, and with her 
lips against his cheek whispered in the wee-est of whis¬ 
pers: “You.” 

Jerry felt paralysed. His forehead became damp. 
He felt himself the most miserable and the most blessed 
of men. 

“Oh, you’ve forgotten the rest,” said Polly. “Now 
you ought to kiss me—kiss me as many times as I have 
fibbed, and then cry: T knew it! I knew It ! 1 ” 

Jerry, with a sudden convulsive movement, tore her 
arms from his neck and jumped up. 

“What is it?” asked Polly. 

“I thought I heard Aunt Felicity calling me,” lied 
Jerry. He listened, then said: “I was mistaken.” He 
took out a cigarette and puffed violently, leaning on the 
mantel and staring down into the fire. Polly settled 
herself in the big chair. 

“Do you realize, Monty, how far I’ve come to see 
you? I was in Charleston visiting an old schoolgirl 
friend when Aunt Felicity’s cable came. I couldn’t be¬ 
lieve my eyes. . . . You see, darling, I had almost 
given up hope. It had been so long, and I was so tired 
just wondering what had become of you. Then I had 
got a horrible conviction that you’d been killed in the 
war—almost every one was. 

“When I got the cable I just flung my clothes into 
the trunk and took the first train north, and—here I 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


125 

am, after surely the longest sea voyage ever taken since 
that of Columbus.” 

Jerry was thinking how heavenly it was to hear the 
soft, drawling tones of the south again. Polly had the 
characteristic southern difficulty with the letter “r,” 
which changed floor into flo and door into dough. Her 
voice, and the exaggerated emphasis on adjectives, re¬ 
minded him of his mother’s. 

“The American is the most adaptable creature on 
earth,” said he abruptly, “but they can’t change their 
tongues. Your voice, Polly—makes me homesick— 
makes me feel an exile. It makes me realize I am— 
shall always be at heart—only a Southerner—an alien 
in any other part of the globe except my own Dixie¬ 
land.” 

Polly jumped up and gave him an impulsive hug. 

“I’m so glad you feel that way too, Monty, love. But 
we must never tell Aunt Felicity. She likes to think we 
are Americans only by an unfortunate accident of birth. 
We are, in her eyes, English by the grace of our two 
fathers—God and papa. And the funny part of it is, 
when I’m really in America I feel frightfully English— 
a perfect British lioness. That’s the awful difficulty of 
having an Anglo-American sandwich of a soul. Yet I 
know perfectly well if I marry an Englishman I shall 
perversely become all stars and stripes and behave with 
disgusting superiority on every Fourth of July. Confi¬ 
dentially, I hope—I intend to marry an Englishman. I 
love them. I even love them when I laugh at them. 
They’re such well-bred souls. I do hope a special 
colony has been set aside for them in heaven. They’d 
be so unhappy having to associate with saved souls 
from countries that weren’t English.” 

Jerry laughed. “Yet after all,” said he, “we’ll have 
to confess in our heart of hearts that we do realize 
that they are a damnably superior race. They’ve 


126 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


graduated in things in which we are only in the fresh¬ 
man class. And look at the way we try to-—” 

“Hush!” said Polly. “Here comes Aunt Felicity.” 

Miss Felicity entered, attired in a black velvet gown 
of an indefinite style which might have belonged to 
any period of good art. Rare old discoloured lace rose 
and fell on her fluttering, modest bosom. She was so 
essentially the type of the gracious English gentle¬ 
woman; so intangibly the result of a well-bred, digni¬ 
fied occupation in the small trifles of life; a creature of 
meagre imagination, but a creature of flawless ideals. 
Beautiful ideals made for the beautiful manner. That 
Miss Felicity had ever had a childhood seemed incred¬ 
ible. That she had run, played, shrieked, and been 
punished seemed somehow inconceivable. One felt she 
must have been born fully dressed even to the gloves. 
Yet withal she was adorable, because she was so 
adorably human—human for all her old-worldness. 
She made one think of delightful, fairy-tale, out-of-date 
things, such as the Lord Mayor of London’s coach. 

As she entered, majestically for all her smallness, 
Jerry looked at her and wished from the bottom of his 
heart that a tie of blood might in reality have given 
him the right to call this dear human anachronism 
“Aunt.” 

Miss Trevider turned sparkling eyes upon him. 
“Monty dear, Polly tells me she has wrought the miracle 
—that the moment you saw her it all came back—you 
remembered.” 

A shadow passed over Jerry’s face. He hated to 
take the joy out of those bright, happy eyes. “Yes,” 
he replied, “I knew her, but-” he hesitated. 

Aunt Felicity sensed the truth. Her face fell. 

“Then it hasn’t lifted—the cloud. All the rest is 
still dark?” 

“Yes,” said Jerry miserably. 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


127 


“My poor boy!” cried Aunt Felicity. 

“But that’s something,” said Polly, taking Aunt 
Felicity’s hand and fondly rubbing her cheek against it. 

“I’m >ust the opening wedge, don’t you see, dearest? 
Through me everything else will come. Won’t it, 
Monty?” 

“Lord! I hope so,” said Jerry fervently, as he offered 
an arm to each. They walked in thoughtful silence 
toward the dining-room. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Jerry was preoccupied throughout dinner with tu¬ 
multuous thoughts produced by the vision of Polly 
sitting at his right. 

She was so amazingly ornamental. And she was so 
radiant, one got the impression that somehow there was 
more light in the room. It was as if one had placed a 
great bowl of exquisite flowers on a hitherto undeco¬ 
rated table. She irresistibly made one think of flowers, 
not one, but a whole bouquet. 

She was small, not much larger than the diminutive 
Aunt Felicity, yet such distinction had she, one had to 
look twice, mentally using a measuring rod, to realize 
her actual height. Her throat was beautifully long 
and slender, holding up the proud little head, in a 
fashion somehow suggesting masterly architecture. It 
made one think of things seen in cathedrals. It also 
made one think of a flower lifting its head up to the 
sun on a long, slender stem. 

Her eyes—he was sure the extra light in the room 
came principally from those eyes. What colour were 
they? He had thought them sea-green during that 
“good long look” in the drawing-room, but they now 
seemed the blue of mid-ocean. She looked at him just 
then, and he was sure he detected a glint of gold in the 
blue, just the sort of gold that the sunset flings out on 
the waters of the sea. Now, he knew: they were 
chameleon. No, he didn’t like that word. Opalescent 
was better. Glaucous! Where had he heard that 
128 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


129 

word? He didn’t quite know what kind of eyes glau-* 
cous eyes were, but he was sure Polly had them. 

Her profile fascinated him; it was so unrigid as to 
seem almost fluid. It had an ageless, deathless sort of 
childlikeness about it, a kind of Peter-Panness. And 
her hair did such funny, unexpected, twisty little things 
about the edges. It looked as if it would behave like a 
baby’s fingers—entwine itself about anything put within 
reach. The colour of the hair was the black of Japan, 
but a black warmed and curled in an Italian sun. 

Her hands intrigued him. They were proportioned 
to her smallness, yet the fingers were so long and 
tapering as to give a deceptive size to the whole, and 
the hands looked so strong, so capable, so expressive. 
She used them as a Latin might. She talked with them. 

Jerry was stung into attention once in a while by 
some amusing description of Polly’s of her fellow-voy¬ 
agers, or by a question addressed directly to him. 

His wine-glass had been filled three times, but so 
abstracted had he been, he had not observed the fact. 
He thirstily drank the glassful down, without pausing 
to sip. 

When Aunt Felicity and Polly withdrew, Jerry 
pushed aside the port offered by the butler. He wanted 
something stronger, something that would “bring the 
answer.” 

He got up and fetched a bottle of whisky and a, 
siphon from the sideboard. 

Lighting a cigarette, he sat with feet sprawled out, 
and drank with a peculiar mechanical precision, about 
a swallow to every third second. He was not really 
cognizant of a drop entering his mouth. 

He announced to himself that he had reached the 
limit of endurance in this infernal masquerade. Polly 
and Polly’s touch had brought things to an inevitable 
climax. Her apparently unsuspecting acceptance of 


130 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


him as her brother, her tender demonstrativeness, made 
him realize more than ever the outrageousness of the 
deception. The twinges of conscience he had experi¬ 
enced in the face of Aunt Felicity’s faith, affection, and 
kindness had been painful enough at times, but he had 
been able to cope with them, hammer his conscience into 
insensibility, but with Polly it was a different matter. 
How could he permit her to give him her adorable, 
adoring love, to have her put her arms about his neck, 
to kiss him morning and night—and probably noon too? 
(Jerry subconsciously realized his glass needed refilling. 
He mechanically attended to it.) It was unthinkable. 
It would be a crime to be fittingly punished only by 
death—“Hung by the neck till dead,” he said aloud in 
a queer, unfamiliar voice. 

He nervously got up and automatically emptied the 
glass, refilling it immediately, mostly missing the target 
aimed at with the siphon. “Behaves like a dam’ Charlie 
Chaplin squirter,” he commented audibly. 

No! By George! He’d not keep up this fool busi¬ 
ness another second. He’d get it off his chest and stand 
again a decent, honest, clean man, before women and 
children—no, he didn’t quite mean that—he meant be¬ 
fore men and God. No, God ought to come first. Of 
course that was what he’d meant to say. God and 
men. God and men. . . . Well, what of God and men? 
Jerry heard a loud laugh. He turned quickly with an 
ultra-sensitive fury and resentment, prepared to anni¬ 
hilate any one who dared laugh at a man, who was 
simply trying to do the—well, do something or other 
that was fine and noble. He had a sense of the inten¬ 
tion, though he couldn’t quite grasp what it was to lead 
up to. He looked about with blazing eyes. He couldn’t 
see the mocker, but he knew. . . . With some difficulty, 
by stepping high over the large objects in the design of 
the carpet, he reached the leather screen before the 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


131 

door leading into the butler’s pantry. There was no¬ 
body lurking there! Jerry stared as one at a spiritual¬ 
istic seance. Then he realized he was alone. Had 
he laughed? Had he had the effrontery to laugh? 
“You think it’s a laughing matter, do you, you son of a 
beach-comber, to deceive a young, innocent girl?” He 
was addressing his own reflection in a mirror, his face 
purple with rage. “I’ll show you.” He managed to 
navigate the undulations of the waves of the carpet, 
and, by a sort of dive, grip the deep-sea-going table. 

By strategy he also managed to clutch an elusive 
glass and got two big gulps down. He grew calmer. 
What was it he was saying? Well, it didn’t matter, but 
one thing was certain, he’d not keep this infernal bluff 
up any longer. He’d behaved like a cursed Hun to 
Miss Felicity, and to Celia, too, but he’d be damned if 
he’d behave like a ruddy blighter to Polly—the finest 
girl that ever set foot on English shores. . . . That 
sounded rather silly, somehow, and the moment he was 
approaching demanded good hard sense and dignity. 
He drew himself up and assumed what he considered 
the air of dignity. He would wait no longer. He’d 
go now. He’d walk straight into the drawing-room and 
announce to that noble woman, Miss Trevider, that he 
was a pretender, that he was a—golly! what was that 
word? It was a hell of a good word if one could land 
it. . . . Impersonator, by gum! . . . He, Jerrold 
Emerson Middleton, was an impersonator. He wasn’t 
Monty Trevider any more than he was Epictetus. 
Jerry found great difficulty with that name. “Epicte¬ 
tus.” He said it aloud carefully and slowly as one 
rehearsing, but it persisted in sounding like Eb-buc- 
de-tus. 

He was standing swaying beside the table, viewing 
his empty glass sadly, knowing there was something 
it needed to make it look complete but not being able 


132 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


to quite think what one did to an empty glass, and 
repeating slowly and painstakingly, “Ebbucdetus,” 
when the door opened, without his perceiving it. 

Miss Felicity, who had grown alarmed at Jerry’s 
long delay in joining them, stood as if struck to stone, 
as she saw her supposed nephew’s difficulties with 
equilibrium and heard that strange, unknown word, 
“Ebbucdetus” issuing from his lips. 

Jerry, who suddenly seemed subconsciously to real¬ 
ize that eyes were upon him, turned violently, nearly 
upsetting everything in the unstable room, including 
himself. 

With the assistance of two hands on the table he 
reinstated his legs to the perpendicular and took on 
an air of great pompousness. He explained: 

“I’m all right—perfectly all right. You don’t think 
so. That’s where you’re all wrong. You must correct 
that notion before I can talk to you, because you’ve 
go to realize I’m sensible in order to take what I’m 
about to say seriously. If you think I’m a hot-air 
artist you’ve got another think coming. I’m a desperate 
man, who is perfectly sober—dead sober.” Jerry 
paused for sheer need of breath. 

Miss Felicity listened quietly, though her heart was 
thumping miserably. 

“Of course you are all right, dear, but it’s late, 

and-” The poor little lady found it so difficult to 

prevaricate, even about so trifling a thing as time. 
“Don’t you think you had better go to bed? I’ll call 
Wiggs.” 

“No, don’t call anybody,” cried Jerry. “We need 
privacy,” he whispered. “This thing is just between 
us. It’s got to be said now. You think I can’t talk. 
. . It did seem an enormously difficult and painful 
task. “Why, I can say mul-li-ga-taw-ny, pufficly, and 
you’ll confess that’s some word. I could say that thing 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


133 

quickly about The Leith police dith-mitheth-us,’ if I 
wanted to, but I always hated people who show off. 
What’s the use of throwing the bull now? What you 
and I want is plain, honest, simple play-ball. What I 
want to say to you as man to man, Aunt Felicity—I 
mean Miss Trevider—what I want to say is, I’m no 
more Ebbucdetus than I’m—no, that’s not it, I mean 
. . . Oh, dam’ it all! I’ve behaved to you like a Chi¬ 
nese dog. I’ve tricked you, tricked Celia, but, by Godl 
I won’t trick Polly. I’m going to be clean—white as 
the Arctic snows, in her eyes. . . .” 

Jerry looked up to drive his point home, to find he 
was addressing a closed door. But was he to be balked? 
No, by Heaven, he’d say it now if he had to hunt the 
whole house and the roof over for Miss Felicity. . . . 

He let go the only friend he had in the world—the 
table—and started forth in that awful world of undula¬ 
tions, alone and unsupported. The going was bad. It 
was a rolling sea, and the deck was aslant in both direc¬ 
tions at once. He believed it was zigzagging—this 
damned house-boat—avoiding a submarine, prob¬ 
ably. . . . 

Perseverance, though, always won out. It would 
even bring you to a door if you used enough of it. A 
handle, too, could be caught hold of, small though it 
was, and sly as it undoubtedly was, if you just kept on 
using perseverance. He got the door handle, turned it 
round, and fell backward as the door opened. An arm 
shot forward through the door and rescued him from 
certain death. He looked up to discover the identity 
of the life-saver and recognized Wiggs. 

“Hello, old Scout!” cried Jerry delightedly. 

“Good evening, sir,” replied Wiggs imperturbably. 

“Stormy night, Wiggs,” said Jerry, shaking his head 
lugubriously. 


134 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


“Indeed, sir! I believe you rang for me. I presume 
you’d like to go to bed. Shall we go up now, sir?” 

“I didn’t ring for you. Whoever said so lied. Don’t 
you let yourself be taken in like that, Wiggs. What I 
want is my aunt. I mean Miss Trewider. I’ve got to 
see her on a very important matter at once.” 

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to wait until morning, 
sir?” suggested the servant. “You see, the fact is, Miss 
Trevider is not—not feeling very well, and I think 
she has probably gone to bed.” 

“In that case,” said Jerry grandiloquently, “I 
wouldn’t disturb her for the world! Miss Polly will 
do just as well. I’ll see her” 

Wiggs by this time had tactfully got an arm about 
the form of his master, and was surreptitiously leading 
him in the direction of the stairs. 

“Very well, sir. Come up to your room and I will 
then carry a message to Miss Polly. She will come 
to you.” 

Jerry by this time felt an overwhelming gratitude 
toward any one who could solve things for him—espe¬ 
cially toward any mariner capable of steering him 
through the heaving hall. Walking was such a tire¬ 
some, useless performance with only two legs. One 
ought to be a centipede on nights like this. 

“I think I’ll sit down and rest,” he announced as he 
slithered through Wiggs’s grasp and came down with a 
bump on the bottom step of the stairs. 

Wiggs, however, was cruelly merciless. He was all 
for action. Wiggs must have once been the strong man 
in Barnum’s circus. He could lift one just as ee-asy. 
But it was one thing to be lifted and another for Wiggs 
to make one’s legs climb. His legs were going to rest, 
however wobbly and unsatisfactory the inaction. But 
no. Wiggs seemed even to force them to movements 
upward. Jerry thought of several dignified protests 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


135 


he wanted to make, but they scarcely seemed worth the 
trouble of enunciation. He felt so dead tired. Even 
his tongue was tired and limp. 

After all, why not lean on Wiggs? If Wiggs liked 
it, if it gave Wiggs pleasure, certainly lean, lean hard. 
Let Wiggs enjoy himself, and do with one as he chose. 
Wiggs chose to pull and heave him up to the third 
floor to his own room. Wiggs chose to undress him 
as if he were a child, and Wiggs chose almost to pick 
him up and lay him on his bed. Funny thing what 
some people enjoy doing! It was a joke. ... But 
back of the joke what was that cursed thing he’d been 
worrying about? Oh yes. It was his deception of Miss 
Felicity and Polly. 

“Wiggs, I’m a putrid Hun!” Jerry announced almost 
proudly. “The sooner Miss Trewider knows I’m a dud 
the better off she, I, everybody’ll be. I’m sick of the 
whole dam’ show. I’m going to clear the decks and 
then skiddoo to-morrow.” 

“I wouldn’t distress myself about it to-night, sir,” 
said Wiggs. “Wait till to-morrow. Just go to sleep, 
if you can, now.” 

“But before going to sleep, I want to impress on 
your mind the fact that a scarecrow is a man com¬ 
pared to me, but mind my word—I’ll tell the world 
I’m going to”—Jerry’s voice grew fainter and he whis¬ 
pered weakly—“clean house and then vamoose” His 
mouth remained in the position of “moose,” and a deep 
—overdeep—breathing followed. 

Wiggs sat down on a chair beside the bed. He was 
tired. When he knew his master was sound asleep, 
he did a queer thing: he leaned over and gently stroked 
the back of the hand which hung weakly over the edge 
of the bed. It was the action of a dog trying to express 
its dumb affection and distress by licking its master’s 
hand. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


136 

Downstairs in the drawing-room Miss Felicity was 
softly weeping on Polly’s breast. 

“But I assure you, Polly,” she sobbed, “it’s the first 
time—the very first. He hasn’t taken a drop too much 
since he came back, until-” 

“Yes, dearest. I’m sure of it,” comforted Polly. 

“It’s just the excitement, the overjoy of your return, 
that made the poor boy drink more than he realized. 
He’s been so straight, so dependable, so quiet-” 

“Yes, dearest,” said Polly, patting her aunt’s back. 
“Don’t worry. He’ll be as right as rain in the morn¬ 
ing and frightfully ashamed of himself. We mustn’t 
rub it in. We’ll pretend nothing has happened, won’t 
we?” 

“Certainly—certainly,” wept Miss Felicity. “But 
I’m so afraid his poor brain is giving way again. . . . 
He told me he wasn’t Epictetus! Oh dear! . . .” 

Polly laughed outright, but quickly subsided as she 
responded to a gentle rap on the door. 

Wiggs entered. 

“Begging your pardon for intruding, Miss Trevider. 
I’ve just come to say Mr. Trevider is sleeping quietly, 
and—and-” 

“Yes, Wiggs,” encouraged Miss Trevider. 

“I just wanted to say, ma’am, that I feel sure the 
master has not been well all day—that he’s been in a 
very queer state of mind and quite excitable. He 
thought he was being chased this morning, ran up the 
stairs and into his room, slammed the door, and, quite 
out of breath, said, ‘Safe! ’ Then he was not at all his 
natural self when dressing for dinner. So, ma’am, I 
can only think his physical and mental condition was 
entirely responsible for the unfortunate—I mean pe¬ 
culiar effect the small amount of spirits he took to-night 
had upon him. I don’t want to be seeming to take 
liberties, Miss Trevider, but I would suggest that per- 




FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


137 


haps you would better get the doctor to have a look in 
to-morrow. Mr. Trevider seems a bit rambling in his 
mind. He apparently thinks he is a German, and I 
regret to say he has said something about cleaning up 
things, after which he said he intended to Vamoose/ 
which I take it in American means to leave.” 

“Dear! Dear!” cried Miss Felicity. “Thank you, 
Wiggs, thank you very much. You may go now.” 

As the door closed behind Wiggs, Miss Felicity and 
Polly stared into each other’s white faces. 

“Oh, Polly, do you think he’s going to disappear 
again?” 

“We’ll see that he doesn’t,” said Polly. “Wiggs is 
quite right. The doctor will come to-morrow, and 
we’ll keep him safely in bed, with Wiggs as gaoler, until 
this fit passes. Wiggs will just lock up all his clothes— 
he can’t very well Vamoose’ nude, can he? Now, dear¬ 
est, we’ll go sensibly to bed and to sleep. Put every¬ 
thing out of your mind. After all, this evening’s per¬ 
formance is the most characteristic thing he’s done, 
apparently, since he came back. There’s no doubt it’s 
Monty—the same old lovable, weak Monty.” 

Then abruptly Polly laughed. 

“Not Epictetus!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


When Jerry awoke the next morning— at 9.10, to 
be exact—he seemed to be trying to grope through 
some horrible sooty fog. He felt as one feels on awak¬ 
ening the morning after the death of some dear one. 
In fact, he suspected he was the dear, dead one himself. 
It was better, after all, to be dead. To be alive, to have 
to think, would kill one anyway. He shrank from 
something—what was it? Some sort of reckoning—a 
reckoning with himself. Nobody had taught him in 
Sunday school that one had to face a reckoning with 
oneself after death. That was worse than being ar¬ 
raigned before the Judgment Seat. One would natu¬ 
rally be on the defence there—one always was in dock 
of any kind, but there was no dodging before the 
arraignment of oneself by oneself. One knew all about 
the case, and cleverness in denials wouldn’t convince 
oneself. Oblivion was what he craved. He didn’t 
want any hereafter. He just wanted to sleep through 
all eternity. What a: wonderful thing sleep was—al¬ 
ways had been, even in life. It was the drop-curtain to 
all earthly sorrows. After all, his happiest hours on 
earth had been those spent in sleep. It had been his 
friend since childhood. It had befriended him during 
all those hideous experiences in France. And now all 
he asked for was the last great sleep that would know 
no waking even at the Last Trump. No Reveille for 
him! What he wanted was a final Celestial Taps. 

Jerry’s eyes felt eternally closed—sealed. They 

were so heavy he couldn’t have opened them if he had 
138 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


i39 

wanted to. He could sleep if only that disgustingly 
annoying, accusing something would stop rap, rap, 
rapping at the door of his consciousness. He’d keep it 
out. It could wait. 

A thud of something falling made him leap about 
two feet. He opened leaden eyes to see a shamefaced 
Wiggs picking up a book knocked by accident from the 
table. 

“What has happened?” cried Jerry wildly. “Is this 
the end of the world?” 

“No, sir,” said Wiggs. “It’s only the end of a night.” 

Jerry became aware of an agonizing thirst. “Bring 
me a glass of water. Bring two glasses.” 

Wiggs brought them. 

“Why does my tongue feel as if it had been mistaken 
for a street and asphalted?” asked Jerry. 

“State of the stomach perhaps, sir.” 

“Why does my mouth taste as if I had cleaned out 
the Augean stables with my teeth?” 

“Can’t say, sir.” 

“And why does it seem as if my head was a sky¬ 
scraper in course of construction, and the steam drill 
going at top speed in the back of my neck?” 

“Don’t know, sir—never having had the chance to 
see a skyscraper.” 

“/ jeel like hell!” Jerry summed up succinctly. 

He was raised on one elbow, the second empty glass 
in his hand. It suddenly dropped from his grasp, 
rolled off the bed, and shivered to bits on the floor. 
Jerry had remembered. That is, he remembered some 
horrible bits, but the fiendish part of it was, he couldn’t 
remember all—couldn’t remember the really vital parts 
—couldn’t remember just how much he had told. 

Then a still more horrible, humiliating realization 
came with a bang. He’d been drunk! 

Drunk! and Polly knew it. 


140 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Jerry clapped bath hands over his eyes and wished a 
comet would strike the earth. 

Wiggs was discreetly leaving the room. Jerry heard 
his cat-like movements and shouted, “Come back!” 

He fell exhausted on the pillow and said: 

“Now tell me, without mincing matters, just how 
many variations of an ass I made of myself.” 

Wiggs was silent—reverentially silent. 

“Don’t stand there like a frozen polar bear. Spit it 
out. What did I do? What have I said?” 

“I will remind you, sir,” began Wiggs, trying to get 
at rudiments, “that you were not at all well all day 
yesterday. You were decidedly not yourself when 
dressing for dinner. Your nervous, excited condition 
left you, I fear, a prey to stimulants, sir, with the un¬ 
fortunate result that the wine taken at dinner rather 
went to your head.” 

“Get on with it!” snapped Jerry irritably, “and don’t 
mess about with the genealogy of my affliction. Get 
down to essentials. What did I tell—that is, say?” 

“Very little of any importance or relating to facts. 
You said, begging your pardon for repeating it, you 
said you were a putrid Hun.” 

“Wiggs, can you lift your right hand and swear to 
me before tall heaven that I said nothing more than 
that?” 

Wiggs extended his right hand up beside his right 
ear and declared that was all he had heard him say 
before he had quietly dropped off to sleep. 

“But,” thought Jerry, “Heaven only knows what I 
said to Aunt Felicity.” 

He now found he hoped to God he’d said nothing. 
He realized he could have been in no fit condition to say 
what he meant to say, what of course ought—must at 
some time be said. The confession he had to make 
required a soberness of the most exaggerated order. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 141 

Then a curiously illuminating and staggering realiza¬ 
tion came to Jerry. Miss Felicity was completely lack¬ 
ing in imagination! Granting that fact one must ac¬ 
knowledge that Miss Felicity could never have grasped 
the truth even had he told it last night. Could she ever 
grasp it? Could she conceive of any one doing the 
bizarre thing Jerry had done when he had planned and 
executed his “Solution”? Aunt Felicity had no imagi¬ 
nation to bring to bear on the thing; she’d never under¬ 
stand it, she’d never believe it. . . . 

It would be hopeless to attempt to tell her the 
truth. . . . 

The dear lady would be only convinced that her 
supposed nephew was incurably mad. 

Jerry felt himself grow weak before that incontro¬ 
vertible conviction. Escape would not lie in confes¬ 
sion. He had gambled with Fate, not knowing the 
cards were stacked. Fate held five aces. 

He had been playing only for small stakes, a few 
square meals, and a lodging for a time—and look at 
what he’d had forced upon him—look at it! And how 
many more hell-begotten stunts was he to be put 
through? He’d heard something about a Bergson 
theory that Nature, the experimentalist, sometimes 
seemed to select certain specimens of the human race 
to play with scientifically—put them through every 
doggone thing she could think of, subjected them to 
every test, forced every conceivable experience upon 
them, and didn’t give a hang whether the subject of 
the experiment bent or broke under the thing. No; 
Nature—Fate didn’t give a dam’ for the destiny of the 
individual. She, he, was all for experiment, results, 
theory, knowledge. Let the poor devil go under! It 
was only another dog vivisected for the good of the 
race. 

Well, he, Jerry Middleton, was the star victim of his 


142 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


age. He was the exemplification of the Bergson theory. 
He was the plaything of Nature, le pantin of Fate. 

Another idea, revelation, came to him. He was being 
punished for a crime—the worst form of suicide. He 
had dared to commit the suicide of personality! 

Sweat stood in beads on his forehead. The palms of 
his hands wept. 

Wiggs appeared before him as a phantom. He held 
an envelope in his hand. 

Jerry hadn’t got a letter for so ldng, the sight of one 
extended toward him gave him a shock. It also gave 
him the exquisite sense of having got something back 
—the re-establishment of rights, connected with indi¬ 
viduality. He hadn’t before realized how he’d longed 
for a letter, missed letters, until he saw that letter in 
Wiggs’s hand. 

He took it eagerly. The envelope was addressed only 
to “Monty.” He wondered if it might be from Celia. 
He’d not seen her since their walk. 

He opened it and read: 

“Monty—darling, —I know you’ll wake up feeling 
like the Old Boy with Gen. R. E. Morse in supreme 
command, so I’m sending this little message, together 
with my love, to say cheer up—all is not lost. 

“Aunt Felicity adores you still, and, frankly, we’re 
decided you seem much more like your old self to us 
both after last night’s performance. I’m horribly sorry 
for you, precious, ’cause I know you’ll feel like a per¬ 
fect beast, but honestly you were only humorous— 
which was a distinct improvement over your dullness 
at dinner. So I say again, cheer up, old dear, and just 
stay put where you are for a time. 

“I’ll run up to see you when Wiggs reports all re¬ 
pairs have been effected.—Your loving 


'Pollywog.” 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


143 


Jerry blushed like a boy receiving his first love let¬ 
ter. “Your loving” . . . The joy produced by the 
letter was not in the least diminished by the fact that 
he knew it to be written to another—to Monty Trevi- 
der. Jerry basked in the comfort of it with a childlike 
ingenuousness. It had been the flood of sunlight scat¬ 
tering the sooty fog enveloping him. 

With a rush, all the longing, desire, anguished de¬ 
sire, inspired by Polly the night before, returned. 

He realized, from her note, that he had not con¬ 
fessed to Aunt Felicity. A great sigh of relief escaped 
him. It was the sigh of the condemned criminal on 
hearing of reprieve. . . . 

Jerry’s reprieve meant he could be with Polly a little 
while longer—until Fate got wearied of her experiments 
and opened the door of escape. 

He began to reread the letter and was deaf and 
blind to all else. He did not hear the door open. He 
did not hear footsteps approaching the bed. 

With a start he suddenly looked up into the eyes of 
a stranger, who was staring down at him with a curi¬ 
ously professional concentration. “Dr. Baragwaneth,” 
explained Wiggs. 

Jerry’s impulse was to run, to escape. He didn’t like 
doctors. He distrusted them. He especially wished to 
avoid all penetrating, scientific gentlemen. ... By an 
adroit movement he could leap past the doctor and get 
into the bathroom. A bathroom was always sanctuary. 
It was the only spot on this earth where you could be 
safely alone with your Maker. 

Jerry got tensely ready for the spring. 

The doctor placed fingers upon his wrist and method¬ 
ically took out a watch. 

His chance had passed. Jerry closed his eyes and 
said to himself, “Hell l” 


CHAPTER XIX 


Dr. Baragwaneth did not talk much to Jerry. He 
did not need to. Miss Trevider had talked to him over 
the telephone, and later on in the drawing-room. 

The doctor knew most of the family history. He, 
of course, knew all about the departure of Monty 
Trevider from the family fold six years previously. 
He had read the account in The Daily Mail of “The 
Man with Lost Memory.” He’d been keenly inter¬ 
ested in that case; such cases always interested him, 
for he had theories about the treatment of such an 
affliction, a theory he had longed to test out. He had 
felt much slighted that he had not been consulted 
earlier by Miss Trevider. 

It seemed from what Miss Trevider had just told 
him there was a threat of another disappearance. 
Humph! 

Dr. Baragwaneth had come prepared to try an experi¬ 
ment. The experiment would have two purposes in 
view: primarily and eventually a restoration of 
memory; secondarily a probing of the subconscious 
memory. This latter procedure must take precedence 
in the matter of experiment over the main object aimed 
at. He was perfectly sure of his ground, from experi¬ 
ence, where the subconsciousness was concerned. The 
other—the complete restoration of memory—was 
hypothetical. If this result was attained, it would be 
a great discovery. He mentally saw himself reporting 
the case before the next meeting of the British Medical 
Association. He visualized requests from The Lancet 
144 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


i45 


and The British Medical Journal for monographs on 
the subject. His fancy even went recklessly so far as 
to fabricate a possible royal loss of memory, the cure 
of which would be wrought by him. The result—the 
reward—he could see it at the top of his report on that 
to-be famous case —“Sir Bernard Baragwaneth.” 

It might also procure for him the opportunity, long 
dreamed of—experimentation on the subconsciousness 
of those arrested for suspected crimes. 

His manner took on a certain pompous jauntiness. 
He was feeling his future knightly oats. 

He opened his bag and took out a case. 

He walked over to the bed. 

“Tongue. Let me see your tongue.” 

Jerry stuck out his tongue, looking as if he were 
really doing what he wanted to do—make a face at the 
doctor. 

“Filthy!” pronounced Dr. Baragwaneth. “Had any 
breakfast?” 

Jerry looked as if he were going to be actively sick. 
The mere word breakfast made him writhe inwardly. 
“Lord, no!” he snarled. 

“Good,” said the doctor and retired to the bath¬ 
room. 

What the deuce was the old owl going to do to him? 
Jerry wished he’d talk instead of looking so all-fired 
wise. 

The old owl was at that moment taking a small bottle 
containing tablets out of his case. It was labelled 
i/iooth grain hyoscine and i/6th grain morphine. He 
dissolved a tablet in sterile water and filled his hypo¬ 
dermic. 

“This will get him off to sleep quickly,” thought he. 
“In about two hours I’ll use two-hundredths of a grain 
of hyoscine alone. These two doses ought to keep him 


146 fate and a marionette 

going till after lunch. By that time the conscious 
memory will be in complete abeyance. The perception 
will be gone. Apperception will be unaffected. Facts 
will—or ought to be—delivered by the subconscious 
brain.” 

He returned to the bedside. He didn’t ask Jerry to 
do anything. He didn’t believe in asking patients. He 
pulled down the bedclothes, pushed Jerry unceremo¬ 
niously over on his side, loosened his pyjamas, and be¬ 
fore Jerry could imagine what the “dodge” was, felt 
a needle plunge into his thigh. He softly and futilely 
swore. The doctor withdrew the needle, wiped the spot 
with antiseptic cotton-wool, and yanked the bedclothes 
back into place. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” said he. 

“The infernal cheek of him!” thought Jerry. “As if 
I could make myself comfortable this morning!” 

Jerry kept his eye on the doctor. The old bird was 
now pulling down the shades. The resultant crepuscu¬ 
lar light of the room was a relief to eyes which felt full 
of red pepper. The doctor went out. Jerry looked 
about for Wiggs. He, too, had disappeared. Jerry was 
alone—alone in an abominable world. Then the world 
began to grow imperceptibly less horrible. It became 
a world to which Jerry felt singularly indifferent. It 
was a restfully quiet world, blessedly free from sound. 
His troubles seemed to be slipping away from him, he 
couldn’t worry, hard as he tried. Things didn’t ap¬ 
parently matter so much as he’d thought. The doctor 
was right. The sensible thing was to make oneself 
comfortable. He turned over and relaxed through his 
whole body. He felt as carefree as a piece of old cork 
bobbing out on a wave. He liked that simile. He be¬ 
came more and more the old cork. He bobbed up and 
down, leaving the responsibility to the wave—a nice 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


147 


soothing wave, which felt curiously like a cradle. He 
was drifting out on the tide. He drifted into sleep. 

Dr. Baragwaneth left instructions with Miss Felicity 
as to where he could be reached by telephone, if he 
should be needed within the two hours. He ordered 
Wiggs to sit quietly beside his master, not to converse 
with him, nor answer questions, should the patient 
awake, but to give him water if he complained of 
thirst. 

He then got in behind his old nag and set forth 
on his country visits, a boyish smile wreathing his 
usually stern countenance. He was mentally forestall¬ 
ing the phenomena which would develop. His state of 
mind was very much like that of the hunter setting forth 
for a day of sport. 

Nothing is so alluring to the medical mind as wander¬ 
ing into the bypaths of experimentation, especially by¬ 
paths which, so far as one knew, were virginal. This 
particular bypath, which Dr. Baragwaneth intended to 
explore, might lead eventually to a very remarkable 
high road. . . . 

By putting the patient into the peculiar hypnotic 
sleep induced by this combination—so frequently used 
by alienists—he would get a condition in which the 
associative bridges in the brain would, for the most 
part, be temporarily broken down; there would be a 
consequent disarrangement of memory—conscious 
memory. The door of the storehouse of* memory—so 
to speak—would be closed and would refuse to open 
to any fresh stimuli, new impressions. There would 
consequently be no recoverable record in the patient’s 
mind of anything that had taken place while he had 
been under the spell of the drugs. 

But—and here was the basis of his theory—the 
memory of all matters stored in the brain prior to the 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


148 

establishment of this peculiar state of seminarcosis 
would be unaffected. Dr. Baragwaneth’s intention was 
to tap this storehouse of memory. He’d get at facts, 
and the patient on awakening would recall nothing of 
what he had told. Yet at the same time he hoped that 
this stirring up of the dormant subconsciousness—dor¬ 
mant since the loss of memory—would result in a sus¬ 
tained subconscious wakefulness after consciousness 
was re-established. 

When the doctor returned he found his patient sleep¬ 
ing quietly. “Pulse normal, slight flushing, a little 
dilation of the pupils,” he commented to himself, “but 
no excitement, flesh cool and moist, everything going 
well.” 

He prepared his second injection and administered it. 
Jerry winced and sleepily muttered something. 

The doctor instructed Wiggs to watch while he went 
below for lunch with Miss Trevider; if the patient 
showed a tendency to ramble in his sleep or attempted 
to get out of bed, he was to be called. 

The doctor ate his lunch with deliberation, and read 
a Plymouth paper, of the day before, with his cigar; 
then, rubbing his hands together with the boyish smile 
of expectation, proceeded puffingly to climb the two 
flights of stairs. 

The patient was in an ideal condition—just the 
proper state for his experiment. 

“Of course,” the doctor warned himself, “the state¬ 
ments of patients during this state of artificial sleep 
are in rare instances unreliable. One has to take ac¬ 
count of the idiosyncrasy of the patient.” He recalled 
the case of a woman of irreproachable character, and 
meagre opportunities, who had laid proud claim to a 
lover—denoting perhaps an inherent amorousness and 
tendency to intrigue, entirely unsuspected, even by her¬ 
self, during her normal state. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


149 


The doctor’s eyes having accustomed themselves to 
the dusk of the room, he drew a chair up to the bed¬ 
side, took out a small notebook and fountain pen. 

He felt Jerry’s pulse, then shaking his arm slightly 
said loudly: “Mr. Trevider!” 

Jerry opened his eyes instantly. 

In a very gentle voice the doctor then began his 
cross-examination. Solely with a desire to find out if 
the patient was responsive, he inquired: 

“What is your name?” 

“Jerrold Emerson Middleton,” was the astounding 
reply. 

The doctor was nonplussed for the moment. He 
reminded himself that one must be prepared to take 
into account the varying reaction of patients to the 
drugs. This patient was evidently attaching to him¬ 
self some name he had heard or read—some name re¬ 
tained by the brain. He would vary his question. 

“Can you spell your name?” 

Jerry slowly and painstakingly spelt it. 

“Puzzling, but most interesting,” mused the doctor, 
as he wrote in his little book. 

“He’d try another method of interrogation. 

“Where were you born?” 

“Ninety-six,” replied Jerry. 

“He probably thought I asked for a telephone num¬ 
ber,” concluded the doctor. He ascribed the absurdity 
of the reply to incoherence possibly due to a slight 
over-dosage. In transcribing the reply he made note 
to this effect. 

“Where were you before you went to London?” 

“France.” 

“What did you do in London?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Do you recall what you did just before being taken 
to the police-station?” 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


150 

“Sure,” replied Jerry. 

“What?” 

“Walked out into Euston Road and stood there.” 

“Why did you do that?” 

“Down and out.” 

“Humph!” mused the doctor. “Not getting forward 
fast, but it may all lead to something.” 

“Did you have a blow on the head?” 

“Nobody crowned me!” said Jerry. 

The doctor looked worried. This sounded like de¬ 
mentia. Did this youth imagine himself a pretender to 
a throne? 

“Have you anything on your mind—is there any¬ 
thing worrying you?” 

“Lord!” sighed Jerry. “I should smile!” 

“Could you tell me what it is?” 

“Nope,” said Jerry very emphatically. 

“This is all very maddening and disappointing,” 
thought the doctor. Apparently even the subconscious¬ 
ness was now on guard. The patient was beginning 
to look too much awake. He didn’t want him restored 
to consciousness yet. He’d desist for the present. 
Jerry was moving his hands about restlessly. He tried 
to get up. The doctor commanded: “Lie down!” and 
Jerry obeyed like a lamb. The doctor administered 
another small injection of i/400th grain hyoscine, and 
then sat quietly watching the patient doze off. 

After a time he pulled the bell cord for Wiggs and 
left the servant in charge, while he sped off to see a 
few more patients. 

After five he returned and roused the patient, ad¬ 
ministering a cup of tea and encouraging him to eat 
two slices of bread and butter. Wiggs stood by wide- 
eyed. He’d been told to bring the tea, but not to speak 
to his master, as the doctor said he didn’t want Mr. 
Trevider roused to actual consciousness. Actual con- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


151 

sciousness! How could a man sit up in bed and chew 
and swallow, without actual consciousness? Wiggs felt 
he was a party to some unholy sort of witchcraft. He 
wished he’d not suggested sending for the doctor. 

The tea and bread finished, the doctor ordered the 
patient to lie down and go to sleep, and by all that was 
queer, thought Wiggs, the master did—did just what 
he was told to do! It wasn’t natural. . . . 

After dinner the doctor reappeared, dismissed Wiggs, 
and sat down for another catechism. 

Jerry, on again being slightly roused, persisted in 
declaring himself Jerrold Emerson Middleton of 
Ninety-Six. There was no making him recall the fact 
that he was really Montagu Trevider. 

“Baffling, very baffling!” commented Dr. Barag- 
waneth. 

“Mother living?” he asked. 

“No. Dead.” 

“Straight on that matter at least,” thought the 
doctor. 

“Father living?” 

“No, dead,” said Jerry, then added with a sardonic 
smile, “Cat’s dead too.” 

The doctor gave a start. This was irrelevancy—non¬ 
sense. 

“What are you called?” he asked. 

“Monty Trevider,” Jerry replied, with a wry face. 

The doctor accepted this one small success in a long 
list of failures. 

He had apparently failed so utterly to elicit truth, 
he decided to abandon further effort. 

In thinking the matter over he decided that Middle- 
ton was undoubtedly the name adopted by young Trevi¬ 
der on leaving home. He naturally would not have used 
his real name. The brain—the subconscious brain— 
had, however, retained the memory of the assumed 


152 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


name used for six years. The action of the drugs had 
caused the brain to give it forth. Interesting, very in¬ 
teresting. He would think the whole matter over care¬ 
fully, saying nothing to Miss Trevider until he had 
made his conclusions. Besides, the experiment was as 
yet incomplete. There was the great secondary, or 
really primary result aimed at—a complete restoration 
of memory. He’d give one more injection, just to in¬ 
sure a good night’s sound, unbroken sleep; give the 
brain a complete rest for twenty-four hours, and then 
we’d see where we were. He believed the patient would 
awake in the morning refreshed in body and mind, with 
a brain cleared of memory mists. 

In the downstairs hall he remarked cryptically to 
Miss Trevider: 

“We may get wonderful results—by morning. I’ll 
look in then. He’s quite all right for the night. He’ll 
have a good night’s unbroken sleep and wake in a fine 
state of well-being, and, I hope, to find himself a per¬ 
fectly restored, normal man—in every way—in every 
way, Miss Trevider.” 

“Do you mean that you have restored his-” 

“We won’t forestall the hatching of the eggs,” said 
the doctor. “We’ll wait for the morning—time enough 
to count our chickens then.” With a gay wave of the 
hand and a twinkle of the eye he was off. 



CHAPTER XX 


The next morning Jerry awoke at eight-thirty. He 
sat up in bed feeling peculiarly fit and pleased with 
himself. 

He glanced about the room. To his amazement he 
saw Wiggs, fully dressed, asleep on the couch. What 
did it mean? Had he, Jerry, been ill? No, it couldn’t 
be that. He had never felt better. O Lord! Now he 
remembered—he’d been drunk. Of course, that faith¬ 
ful ass of a Wiggs had stationed himself there to watch 
over his master. Poor fellow! He looked tired. Sleep 
wasn’t altogether becoming to Wiggs. It relaxed his 
dignity of bearing and expression. Let him sleep. He 
wouldn’t disturb him. 

Softly he crept past Wiggs to the bathroom. A cold 
plunge would feel good. 

Wiggs was awakened by sound. He jumped up guilt¬ 
ily. His first thought on seeing the empty bed was that 
his master had decamped. Once fully awake, however, 
he realized that the sound which had roused him was 
that of water running in a tub. Reassured, he decided 
to get washed and tidied up himself. 

When he returned he found Jerry robed in a dressing- 
gown, seated before a dead fire, manicuring his nails. 

Wiggs placed a Penzance morning paper on the table 
within reach, and then condescended to rake out the 
ashes and rebuild the fire. 

Jerry picked up the paper. He rubbed his eyes. 
His sight seemed a little queer. It was as if he were 
reading through running water. He glanced up at the 
153 


154 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


top of the sheet and read the date. His eyes were 
indeed queer. 

“Wiggs,” he said, “read that. What is to-day?” 

“It is Friday, the 24th of October.” 

“Friday! Wasn’t it Wednesday that Miss Polly 
came? Wednesday night that I made a fool of 
myself? Didn’t I ask you when I first woke this 
morning if it was the end of the world? Isn’t this 
Thursday morning?” 

“This is Friday, sir,” persisted Wiggs. 

“God in heaven!” cried Jerry wildly, putting both 
hands to his head. 

He had lost twenty-four hours—lost them for everl 
Fate had indeed taken a subtle revenge. The man who 
had pretended a loss of memory had been given an 
actual taste of it. 

For a moment Jerry felt as if he were plunging 
through space. 

“Wiggs,” he asked with tragic voice, “tell me 
honestly, do you think I’m losing my mind?” 

“Oh, I ’ope not, sir.” So miserable, so nakedly 
natural were Wiggs’s sensations, he had actually let go 
an aitch. He wanted to tell Jerry about that lapse of 
time, to offer some consolation, but he didn’t dare say 
anything without the permission of the doctor. Those 
twenty-four hours had been a nightmare to Wiggs. It 
was all incomprehensible. Wiggs felt befuddled almost 
to the point of insanity himself. He had hitherto had 
a great respect for the medical profession. Now he 
had only distrust and fear. 

Mr. Trevider, save for an inordinate propensity for 
sleep, had to all appearances been quite normal during 
all that time in which he had been under the spell 
cast over him by Dr. Baragwaneth. 

His body had retained its normal functions; his 
relish of the tea and bread had looked normal; his 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


155 


speech had in no way been peculiar when he had on 
several occasions requested a drink of water. And 
in the afternoon of yesterday he had asked for a clean 
handkerchief. How could a gentleman have a desire 
for a clean handkerchief if he were unconscious? 

No, there was no belittling the serious queerness of 
his master’s condition during the past twenty-four 
hours. . . . One couldn’t reasonably make light of 
it. And Wiggs felt personally responsible. Had he 
not in a regrettable moment taken it upon himself to 
suggest to Miss Trevider that the doctor be summoned? 

Overcome by compunctions, he so far forgot himself 
as to sit down, or rather sink down in a chair, and in 
another moment his attitude of despair was a replica 
of that of his master. 

There was a tiny rap at the door which neither Jerry 
nor Wiggs heard. The door gently opened. There 
was a ripple of gay laughter. 

“What in the world is the matter with you two? 
Of all the pictures of concentrated gloom! . . . Has 
Wiggs been discharged or has he given notice?” 

Polly stood daintily balancing a breakfast tray. She 
shook her head as Wiggs sprang to attention and offered 
to relieve her. 

Jerry stood in abashed shyness, fearfully aware of 
his unkempt appearance in dressing-gown. 

Polly looked more lovable, more adorably exquisite 
than ever, attired as she was in a pale blue negligee 
edged with maribou. Her hair was loosely caught up 
in a great knot. Dozens of little stray locks curled 
maddeningly around her forehead, ears, and back of 
neck. 

As Polly looked into his eyes she observed a queer 
look of concentration and that same unnameable 
something she’d seen two nights before. Her blood 
again thrilled inexplicably and warningly. She quickly 


156 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

denied her own intuitions and with perfect self-control 
said gaily: 

“Here’s the crispest bacon, the freshest butter, the 
hottest toast, the smoothest porridge, the richest cream, 
and the strongest coffee in all England. Doesn’t that 
cheer you up, Monty dear?” 

Jerry couldn’t reply, “Oh! You angel! You darling 
thing! Don’t you realize I love you more than any 
man ever loved any woman—more than Anthony loved 
Cleopatra, more than Abelard loved Heloi'se, more than 
Aucassin loved Nicolette? . . so he didn’t say any¬ 
thing. He only looked silly and gazed at Polly so 
peculiarly, so devouringly, that she felt her cheeks go¬ 
ing hot and her heart getting throbby. But, of course, 
it was all due to her own silliness. She felt thoroughly 
ashamed of herself. She advanced and placed the tray 
on the table beside Jerry’s chair. Then she got on her 
knees at his feet. 

“Now, Monty, let’s see your tongue. That’s right. 
Looks fairly decent. Now you may put it in again so 
I can kiss you.” 

She kissed him, and Jerry wished he could die right 
then and there and carry the memory of the sensation 
with him through all eternity. After all, there wasn’t 
so much to be said for oblivion after death. . . . 

“The doctor said I might bring your breakfast up 
myself this morning.” 

The doctor? Jerry gave a start. Things were 
coming back. ... He now realized that the last thing 
he remembered was the prick of a needle and the after 
sensation of feeling like an old cork floating out on the 
tide. 

Yes. The doctor had used a hypodermic needle. 
He’s been drugged! 

“Hpw dared he!” he cried aloud. “What did that 
infernal old owl do to me? What did he give me?” 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


157 

Jerry leapt to his feet in a state of uncontrollable fury. 
“What right had he? I wasn’t ill.” 

“Monty, darling!” Polly rose and put her arms 
about his neck. “Please don’t excite yourself. It’s 
all right.” 

“All right to make a gap in my memory of a day 
and a night?” Jerry savagely drew away from the 
imprisonment of Polly’s arms. 

He walked the floor. Suddenly the thought came 
to him that he had been off guard during those twenty- 
four hours. What had his unguarded tongue divulged? 
What secrets might he not have babbled? He grew 
physically weak and staggered slightly. Polly’s quick 
eye detected the wobble, and she flew to his side, took 
his arm, and led him back to his chair. 

“Now I shall feed the savage beast myself. I’ll 
make out I’m a lion-tamer. ‘Of lion-bitings she was 
almost dead.’ . . ... Do you know that tragic song? 
Now if my fierce old roaring lion loves me, he’ll open 
mouth w-i-d-e! ” 

Jerry laughed and opened his mouth. Who could 
withstand such cajolery? Polly fed him a spoonful 
of porridge. Most of it went on his dressing-gown. 
They laughed and mopped it up. 

Then Polly tucked the serviette under his chin. 

“Now you look just as you did when you were a 
little bit o’ boy. But your hair is too smooth. Must 
rumple it up. There now! Look just as you used 
to in your little holland suits with hair all tousled.” 

Jerry felt drunk with happiness. 

“Polly—your note—your wonderful note. It was 
a bear!” He looked a universe of appreciation into 
her eyes. 

“Did you like it? I’m so glad. But you must 
eat now and not think about burnt bridges. Give 
me a sip of your coffee.” 


158 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

He did and then found the exact spot on the cup 
where her lips had rested. 

As she bent her head for a second sip, a curling 
wisp of hair brushed his hand. A thrill went over 
him. Before he could restrain himself he had bent 
over and kissed the top of her head. 

To Jerry it was an act of unpardonable abandon. 
Polly took the kiss as a matter of course. 

“Who’ you love?” she asked in a whisper, glancing 
slyly up at him. 

“You!” said Jerry, almost dropping the cup. 

“Oh dear! You don’t play it worth a cent any 
more,” Polly pouted. “The game’s no fun if you 
don’t keep the other fellow in suspense. Why, you 

could have first said Celia, and then- Oh, I’d 

almost forgotten to tell you—the box has arrived 
from Plymouth!” 

“What box?” 

“Rings” she said in awed tones. 

“Rings?” 

“Yes, idiot. For Celia’s choice. Oh! I do wish 
I was engaged to somebody or other. ...” 

The mention of Celia’s name had produced a sudden 
chill in Jerry’s system. 

“She’s coming over some time this forenoon— 
to see you, you know. We telephoned her that you’d 
—well, that you’d not been well. So you can show 
them to her when she comes. Lucky girl!” Polly 
sighed. 

“Polly,” cried Jerry desperately, “you’ll stay by me 
when Celia comes—don’t leave me—promise. I— 
I don’t feel well enough yet to see her alone.” 

“Monty Trevider!” Polly stared at him with stark 
surprise. “Who ever heard of a boy wanting his sister 
to be present during the moment—that awful, ex¬ 
quisite, marvellous, solemn moment when he puts the 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


159 

engagement ring on his fiancee’s finger and kisses 
it.” 

“Kisses it?” repeated Jerry dully, as a memory of 
a kiss he had once tried to bestow on Celia’s hand 
came back to him. He hadn’t forgotten her comment 
of “slush.” “Not on your life!” he said aloud. “I’ll 
not kiss it.” 

“Monty!” again said Polly, this time with serious 
alarm. Then she took Jerry’s hand and said: “Look 
at me.” 

Jerry looked up miserably. The whole tragedy 
of his dislike of Celia, the wretched unhappiness bred 
of his anomalous position, showed in his eyes. Then 
the expression changed and Jerry forgot his wretched¬ 
ness and realized only that he was looking into the 
fathomless eyes of his beloved. 

Polly’s eyes fell and her thoughts became so con¬ 
fused she forgot the question which had been on the 
brim of her lips. 

“Promise,” begged Jerry. 

“Promise what?” 

“That you’ll not leave me when—when Celia 
comes.” 

Polly stared in the fire. She was still pondering 
over, that strange request when the door opened and 
Dr. Baragwaneth entered. 

Scenting the powder of battle, and noticing the 
quick flash of Jerry’s eye, she, with a few merry words, 
made a graceful but rapid exit. 

Jerry rose, with smouldering fury in his breast, and 
faced the doctor. 

“Did you give me hashish?” he asked. 

The doctor did not acknowledge the prerogative of 
any patient to question him. 

“Why do you ask?” he temporized. 


160 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

“What did you inject into me?” asked Jerry, with 
white lips and a peculiarly calm voice. 

“Merely something to quiet you a little,” replied 
the doctor. “Now let’s see how your pulse is this 
morning.” 

“No, you don’t,” said Jerry. “Don’t touch me. 
Can’t you see I’m exerting every ounce of control I 
possess to restrain myself? I’m restraining the almost 
overpowering desire to knock you down.” 

The doctor received this statement with professional 
calm, merely taking advantage of the moment’s 
opportunity to observe the pupils of Jerry’s eyes. 
There was still a slight dilation—drugs not yet entirely 
excreted from the system. There would probably 
still be a little defect in the vision. “Mr. Trevider,” 
said the doctor in a tone which implied he had not 
heqxd the last remark of the patient, “do you by 
any chance recall ever having heard the name”—he 
paused as if trying to recall something himself, then 
continued—“name of Jerrold Emerson Middleton?” 

Jerry was taken off guard. The shot had hit an 
undefended target square in the centre. All the fury, 
all the desire to fight suddenly deserted him. He was 
breaking out into a cold perspiration. How much 
did this man know? How much had he, Jerry, given 
away under the spell of that dam’ drug? 

Suddenly the flush and fury again spread over his 
cheeks, the flash of battle to his eyes. He’d not be 
trapped by anybody. Whatever he might have told 
when drugged, he could disclaim responsibility for; 
he could hold tight to that invaluable asset—loss of 
memory. No one, not even this crafty old scoundrel, 
could prove that he was Jerry Middleton; could ever 
prove that he had deliberately faked lost memory, 
but he knew himself not to be Monty Trevidor. No, 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


161 

by heaven! he’d not be trapped into a confession. 
He’d confess only when he felt good and damned 
ready. He would not reassume the name of Jerrold 
Emerson Middleton until he chose of his own free 
will. He’s see this old jay bird in hell before he’d 
confess anything under compulsion. 

But Jerry knew that the keen eyes of Dr. Barag- 
waneth had never left his face since the question had 
been fired. He’d seen the effect of his big Bertha, 
That had to be accounted for. 

“Something stirred here, for a brief second, but-” 

He paused, pressing his temple. “No, I—it’s gone.” 

“You are sure you don’t now recall any association 
connected with the name?” asked the doctor. 

Jerry looked the doctor steadily in the eye and lied: 
“No.” 

“Do you recall any of the events which led to 
your—which antedated your being taken in charge 
by the police on Euston Road? Do you not find 
your mind cleared of many fogs this morning?” 

“Haven’t noticed any change,” declared Jerry. 

The doctor looked pained. He then took a search¬ 
ing survey of Jerry again. “Quite sure about not 
recalling any one intimately connected with yourself 
by the name of Middleton?” 

Jerry lost all control of himself. He’d not be hec¬ 
tored, badgered, third-degreed by this son of a gun. 

“Go to hell!” he said, and turned away and lit a 
cigarette. 

The doctor again ignored the breach of good manners 
and remarked: “Eat all you choose and get out in 
the garden to-day. It’s a genuine St. Martin’s sum¬ 
mer day. Saw a heron this morning.” 

He held out his hand. 

On first thought Jerry decided to ignore it. 


i 62 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


On second thought, after a look into the doctor’s 
eyes, he decided differently. 

He extended his hand and permitted it to be shaken. 
Perhaps, after all, it would not be wise to antagonize 
this gentleman too much. 


CHAPTER XXI 


“Damme!” thought Sir Wilfred Boughton-Leigh, on 
hearing the tones of Mr. Coolie’s suave voice in the 
hall outside his study, “that curate here again! Yet 
. . . well, after all, such undeveloped things as women 
and children probably need the diversion and panacea 
of the spiritual diet—it’s the treacle on their brown 
bread of life.” 

He smoothed down his already perfectly smooth 
British head, then thought less consecutively, but no 
less emphatically, that it was just as well that Celia 
was safely in the engagement harness again. If that 
underpaid parson-chap had designs on his fortune 
he’d come a cropper. 

Neurotic girl—Celia. Her poor dear mother had 
been neurotic too . . . temperamental. . . . The 
Boughton-Leighs, Heaven be praised, had never had 
temperaments. Celia, he recalled, had passed through 
four different apotheoses since her twelfth year. 

First: Tied-to-the-apron-strings-of-her-mother atti¬ 
tude, at an age when she should have been romping 
out of doors, growing into a healthy young animal. 

Second: Richardson - Fielding — Jane Austen — 
Rhoda Broughton, heroine composite type; romance, 
sighs, gloomings, and talking about her soul. To talk 
about one’s soul was, to Sir Wilfred, immodest if not 
definitely indecent. 

Third: Began well in a seeming passion for sports, 
showing what purported to be the first trace of true 
Boughton-Leigh instincts; but the war punctuated 
163 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


,164 

that period and the enthusiasm for golf, tennis, riding, 
and hunting became magnified into a Joan of Arc 
pose. Nothing would answer but to gird up her loins 
and dash to France. If she’d been a boy, as she ought 
to have been, of course her place would have been 
France. His son—it goes without saying—would 
have been among the glorious “Contemptibles.” 
If he’d lived—or ever been born, to survive—he would 
have worn the Mons star. But a girl! A battle¬ 
field was no place for a decent girl. In his youth 
the female followers of an army had been termed 
“Vivandieres.” They were not mentioned before 
one’s family. Of course the women had behaved 
extraordinarily well in the late war, behaved almost 
as if they were men, but all the same that sort of thing 
meant a loss of femininity, tended to lower the standard 
—feminine and masculine. It, moreover, tended to 
belittle men. Women should never be permitted to 
demonstrate that they could equal or emulate men in 
provinces and fields essentially masculine. If Nature 
had intended women to do men’s work, she would 
have endowed women with logical brains and the 
proper abdominal muscles. 

Fourth: Religious. That infernal, designing, 

Jesuitical Coolie had taken advantage of a depleted 
physical condition due to a morbid giving way to 
grief after the loss of her mother, and encouraged the 
girl to a most impertinent interest in the souls of others 
—to say nothing of her own. Celia was bounding 
about in the homes of the defenceless poor, prating 
to them, in the most abandoned way, about salvation 
and the necessity of buying that salvation by a more 
regular attendance at services. The way in which 
she openly discussed religious matters at the table, 
before the butler, was, to put it restrainedly, not well 
bred. It was almost Wesleyan. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 165 

She must see more of young Trevider, when that 
wholesome, if somewhat gay, young man, was again 
out of the doctor’s hands. A Trevider would have 
the trained hand to drive that little filly of his. 

Sir Wilfred decided that he would be well advised 
to talk over Celia’s aggravated spiritual excitement 
with that estimable woman, Miss Trevider. Wonderful 
woman that! There were only a few surviving types 
of the old system. Miss Trevider was the perfect type 
—a magnificent survival. He wondered vaguely just 
what Miss Trevider’s age might be, wondered with 
a: widower’s half-abashed recruiting inner eye. She 
looked fifty. She might be less. She was like a 
little, round, red apple kept rather late into the spring; 
still round and healthily coloured, but just a little— 
he balked at the word shrivelled, and substituted 
“soft.” 

His thoughts were abruptly switched from rumina¬ 
tions on Miss Trevider by some ashes falling on his 
left arm. They inartistically fell on the mourning 
band worn for the late Lady Boughton-Leigh. As 
he brushed them away he was reminded that he was 
absorbed in deeply mourning a late and very much 
lamented wife. 

His thoughts reverted to the daughter of that wife. 
The fifth stage of Celia—what would that be? A 
horrible idea blew across the conservative seas of 
his mind, ruffling it to white caps. God bless us! 
Politics. Be just like Celia to go in for politics next. 
Most disorganizing affair that talk of a woman probably 
getting into the House of Commons. If such a thing 
happened one could never again feel safe in regard 
to the feminine members of one’s household. 

He would see to it that Celia would be shortly 
married—as soon, in fact, as a decent period of 
mourning would permit. Nothing like a husband, 


i66 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


home, and expected children to keep a woman safely 
tied. Keep them occupied! 

More than ever Sir Wilfred felt Celia to have been 
guilty of an unpardonable affront to him when she 
had had the inconsiderateness to be bom a girl. He 
really felt, and thought, as if Celia had, by some 
personal and perverse choice of sex, deliberately 
robbed him—her father—of an heir to the baronetcy. 
Celia had balked the continuance of title. It was 
as if she had, by so doing, offended the British system. 

Had his late lamented wife been less neurotic, more 
the simple healthy breeder, she might have made 
another effort to do her duty and produce a son, 
thereby mitigating her first offence. But no. The 
doctor—doctors are all fools, and in league with their 
silly admirers, women—the doctor had said Lady 
Boughton-Leigh was not to have more children. Had, 
in fact, asked him— him, Sir Wilfred Boughton-Leigh 
—if he wished to be a murderer! 

Thanks to that idiot of a doctor, here he was to-day, 
at the age of fifty-five, with a fortune ever increasing, 
and no son to inherit it. 

An unseemly thought fluttered across Sir Wilfred’s 
mind—the vision of some strong, able-bodied woman, 
the realization of his own unsapped virility, his long- 
restrained natural appetites; but these vagarious 
suggestions of some unscrupulous imp were thrust 
violently out of the door of his brain as he concentrated 
on the spectacle of the use to which that magnificent 
family vault, which he had built only the preceding 
year for future emergencies, had been so recently put. 
Little had he thought, when he saw that vault com¬ 
pleted, how soon it would have an occupant. . . . 
Sir Wilfred enjoyed a few moments of tempered grief. 
No, it was no time, with a sorrow only nine days old, 
to be thinking of the future. His thoughts must 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 167 

still, for some months, be delicately dedicated to the 
past. “Chaque chose a sons temps.” 

The butler brought in the morning post. Sir Wilfred 
felt in no mood for business letters. He pushed them 
aside. They seemed an impertinence when one was 
recruiting in the country after such a distressing 
ordeal as the loss of one’s wife. Sir Wilfred always 
declared himself a country man. As a matter of fact, 
more than a month of Cornwall, in one dose, bored 
him insufferably. He was at home only in the stir 
of the town. His was but the magnified soul of the 
tradesman. 

He liked, however, to declare to fellow-members of 
his London club that the only English society, worthy 
of the name, existed to-day among the county folk. 
They alone were preserving the ideals of the old- 
established order. When he voiced this sort of thing, 
he felt it imbued him with a sort of county-family 
aroma. 

He had a veneration for the county families. He 
had a veneration for Miss Felicity, as representing a 
county family, the lineage of which was lost in the 
fogs enveloping the early Britons. 

Miss Felicity, in her untitled magnificence, made him 
feel his baronetcy a provincial, almost tawdry thing. 
He had never forgotten overhearing a remark she had 
once made. Said Miss Trevider: “We have always 
been staunch adherents to the Crown, but never 
panderers to power. We have been, and always shall 
be, simply Treviders.” 

When with others—the other untitled ones—Sir 
Wilfred frequently enjoyed his own title, but with Miss 
Felicity he felt uncomfortably apologetic on account 
of it. To be sure, the baronetcy had not been bought 
by contributions to party funds or large donations to 
charity. It had been conferred on his grandfather 


i68 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


for services to the Crown—moral services. If Celia 
continued at her present spiritual gallop, she might 
even rival her great-grandfather in moral immortality. 

His grandfather had been immoderately moral— 
and tradition had it intemperately religious. Perhaps 
inheritance, taking the hedge of two generations, had 
landed on Celia. Sir Wilfred nevertheless believed in 
women of the better classes being passively religious 
and attending church occasionally (as an example 
to others) out of respect due all English institutions. 
They should, however, shed their piety on the church 
porch. Such a code made for an easy, comfortable 
home atmosphere. 

But he had indeed wandered far from his original 
thought. ... He had seated himself at his desk to 
elucidate the problem of Celia. What was to be done 
with her now? He didn’t want Celia in town—at 
this season. At any season town produced anaemia 
in women. They belonged to the country. 

He could not, however, leave her down here in 
Cornwall alone, without her mother—with only the 
old housekeeper as companion. His mind flitted dis¬ 
cerningly over the list of possible relatives. He dis¬ 
liked and distrusted most of his relatives. Relatives 
were, as a rule, odious. 

“I’ll advertise for a companion. Widow of army 
officer preferred. They are generally gentlewomen.” 

That decision reached with businesslike promptitude, 
he immediately transcribed the advertisement, stamped 
the envelope, addressed it to The Times, and put in 
the rack for to-be-posted letters. 

His ear was at that moment again assailed by the 
mellifluous tones of Mr. Coolie making his adieux. 

“After all,” thought Sir Wilfred, less acridly, “he 
and his affairs are probably a blessing to the poor girl 
in her loneliness.” It did not occur to Sir Wilfred 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 169 

that he might occupy himself with the diversion of 
Celia. He realized the chasm, separating tempera¬ 
ment from no temperament, fixed by nature between 
them. To attempt to bridge that chasm would be 
to attempt the absurd, and the absurd had no place 
in Sir Wilfred’s scheme of life. 

He should, after all, be grateful to any one who could 
provide Celia with interest, but, “Bless my soul!” he 
almost cried aloud, “why should an engaged girl 
require outside interests? Against nature, I call it. 
She should be entirely preoccupied, preparing her 
mind for the proper readjustment necessary to the 
relationship of marriage.” 

Dash it all! he’d go and talk over the matter of 
Celia—everything pertaining to Celia—with that 
gentle, simple woman, Miss Trevider. Simple—but 
permanent. 

To realize that some of that permanent blood would 
be the heritage of his grandchildren was a pleasant 
thought to Sir Wilfred. It had made the contempla¬ 
tion of the eventful marriage of Celia to Monty 
Trevider pleasant, even in the chaotic stage which 
that youth was passing through prior to his disap¬ 
pearance. After all, the wild oats sown had been 
Trevider oats. Of course he had to ignore that fact 
when he had had the disagreeable half-hour’s talk with 
Trevider six years ago. It had truly hurt Sir Wilfred 
far more to say the things he felt obliged to say to his 
future son-in-law than it had hurt young Trevider 
to hear them. 

Sir Wilfred arranged his unopened morning post 
neatly in a pile in mid-desk, to be attended to 
immediately after lunch, and went to the hall to 
get his hat. 

As he passed out of the front door he observed Celia 


170 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

going through the garden gate. He followed in her 
footsteps, through the garden gate to meadow, but 
he made no effort to overtake her. 

The destination of both father and daughter was 
Tolvean. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Celia and her father arrived at Tolvean in close 
sequence, and found Miss Felicity, Polly, and Jerry 
together in the library. 

Jerry had been ensconced in the most comfortable 
chair by Miss Felicity, who insisted on regarding him 
as an invalid. 

“Sorry to hear you’ve been under the weather, my 
boy,” said Sir Wilfred, patting Jerry affectionately 
on the shoulder. “Slight attack of indigestion, I 
presume. We all eat too much.” Sir Wilfred was 
himself the thin, dynamic type to which a hearty 
appetite is unknown. “Never saw such an eater as 
that young Coolie. Gout will get him in a few years.” 

“Coolie?” repeated Polly. “What a funny name. 
Who is he—a newcomer?” 

Celia felt it her prerogative to reply to the question. 
The tone of the reply avenged the reflection on the 
name of Coolie. “He is,” said she icily, “the new 
curate and a friend of mine.” 

Polly was archly silent. 

“Mr. Coolie is a most estimable person who”—Sir 
Wilfred paused and his eyes twinkled— “who feels his 
sphere of action much too lmiited in our phlegmatic 
neighbourhood. He wishes to be sent to British 
Columbia, where, as he expresses it, in his literary 
style, ‘great sins are committed by charming people.’ ” 

“Oh! I must know him,” cried Polly enthusiastically. 
“He sounds quite thrilling. I hope he’s unmarried. 
Men are so scarce in Trewarthenith.” 

171 


172 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Miss Felicity, with a tactful effort to relieve the 
evident discomfort of Celia, hastened to put in a 
reassuring word regarding Mr. Coolie. 

“I understand that his mother was of gentle birth 
—one of the Smith-Russells of Kent, in fact. She 
poor lady, however, made a rather indiscreet marriage, 
without her family’s approval. She suffered suffi¬ 
ciently for her lack of judgment and good taste— 
most shocking poverty. It seems that by great self- 
denial and ingenuity she managed to get one of her 
sons into the Army and the other into the Church. So 
you see . . .” She left the sentence unfinished, 
open, and in so doing metaphorically gave the sons 
of a Smith-Russell the opportunity of re-entering, by 
the agency of arms and prayer, the gate leading back 
to the fold of the elect. 

“Which all means that this young clerical Coolie 
must do himself well matrimonially,” Sir Wilfred 
summed up practically. “I think he would be very 
much interested to meet you, Polly, my dear, 
very ...” Sir Wilfred’s voice trailed off into a 
vibrating silence. 

Celia rose with nervous impatience. Going to a) 
window she whiffed some odourless cyclamens there 
flowering in pots. She hoped her boredom would make 
itself evident. 

Miss Felicity was the only one present at all sensi¬ 
tive to Celia’s thought waves. Her trained sense of 
the hostess made her acutely aware of the emotions of 
her guests. She rose, inspired with the means of re¬ 
establishing interest—pleasant interest in the mind of 
dear Celia: the as yet unopened box from Plymouth. 
With a glance at Polly she excused herself. Polly 
understood and in turn wirelessed a significant message 
to Jerry. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


173 

Conversation remained at the halt until Miss Felicity 
reappeared. 

“Monty dear,” said she, “I think it would be warmer 
for you in the drawing-room—perhaps Celia would ac¬ 
company you.” She turned to Sir Wilfred. “I have a 
few matters upon which I would very much appreciate 
your advice. Shall we go up to my morning-room?” 
Then in a very casual tone she intimated to Polly that 
she believed Paynter wished to speak to her about 
something. 

Polly responded immediately to the cue, and was 
hastening past Jerry’s chair when she was brought to 
a very abrupt stop. Her skirt had been clutched. She 
turned and looked down into the mute, heart-rending 
appeal in Jerry’s eyes. She tried to wriggle loose, un¬ 
noticed by the others, but Jerry was merciless. Seizing 
her arm he rose, and, leaning heavily as if he were 
actually the invalid Miss Trevider supposed him, said 
to Celia: “Shall we go to the drawing-room?” 

Arrived there, the first object which met Jerry’s eye 
was the box from Plymouth, placed ostentatiously on 
the table near the fireplace. 

His intention was to ignore it, but Polly’s intuition of 
his intention expressed itself in nudges, crescendoing 
to pinches. He succumbed. 

“Oh yes, Celia,” said he, “here is a package which 
you must help me open—you and Polly. Polly is so 
bursting with curiosity, I had to promise to let her have 
a look-in at the show.” 

Polly flashed an indignant glance at him, then with 
a laugh decided to play up. “Yes,” said she, “I’m just 
dying to see them—I mean it. Have you any idea 
what’s in here, Celia?” 

“Not the faintest,” said Celia, with a suppressed 
yawn of boredom. 


174 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Jerry produced his knife. 

Polly, down on her knees beside Celia, on whose lap 
the box now reposed, cut the string and undid the 
paper. 

“Now! I mustn’t profane it by another touch. You 
do the rest, Celia.” 

Celia, with complete lack of enthusiasm, slid the 
wooden lid back. Six little white leather boxes were 
revealed, packed in a nest of crumpled tissue paper. 

“What are these?” she asked indifferently. 

“Open and find out,” said Jerry. “See which is the 
Cinderella slipper that will fit your—no, that’s not the 
right simile-” he broke off, with a nervous laugh. 

Celia unhooked the first small case. From its white 
velvet cushion flashed the blue-white flames of four 
diamonds set in a row. Her eyes seemed to reflect the 
cold glitter of the ice-stones. Her cheeks grew pale. 
As one in a dream she opened the other boxes. 

“Try them on,” whispered Polly. 

Celia picked up a ring at random—it chanced to be 
the first one opened—and slipped it over the fourth 
finger of her left hand. It fitted. She left it there, 
staring curiously down upon it. 

“Aren’t you going to try them all on?” asked Polly, 
chilled to the heart and offended in all her romantic 
ideals by this unsentimental way of conducting a won¬ 
derful and momentous occasion. 

“What’s the use?” asked Celia wearily. “This one 
fits.” 

“But . . .” Polly’s brow puckered, her chin almost 
quivered. She looked from Celia to Jerry and from 
Jerry to Celia. “If that one is your choice, isn’t Monty 
going to put it on—on with a wish?” 

“A wish! ” laughed Celia sarcastically. “What punk! 
Wishes are all rubbish. You’re still just a silly child, 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


175 


Polly.” She methodically closed the five unchosen 
rings in their little boxes, crushed the tissue paper about 
them, slid the wooden top back in place, and handed 
the box to Polly with a look which seemed to say, “This 
ends the subject under discussion.” 

Polly lifted the box reverently. From her expression 
one might have thought she was holding a tiny baby’s 
coffin. She felt she was going to scream, weep, or do 
something dreadful if she did not quickly get out of this 
oppressive atmosphere. Perhaps, thought she, staring 
down at the little wooden box, it had all been so un¬ 
natural because of her presence—the audience of a 
third. Perhaps Celia had felt she must camouflage. 
Perhaps they were both pretending all this horrid in¬ 
difference to shield themselves and their real emotions 
from her. It was all Monty’s fault. Why, oh why! had 
he forced her to come into the room? 

She looked up reproachfully at Jerry. She’d make 
him realize all she felt, and let him see she wouldn’t 
endure her intolerable position there with them another 
moment. 

She couldn’t engage Jerry’s eye. He was staring with 
unfocused vision past her. His eyes seemed to reveal 
his naked, crucified soul. Polly saw the misery, the 
hopelessness of that soul. 

She turned her eyes from him with an acute sense of 
pain in her breast. She looked at Celia. Celia, too, was 
staring straight before her, staring down an endless 
vista of years—years of marriage. . . . Her eyes re¬ 
minded Polly of those of a trapped hare she had once 
seen. 

“Oh!” she gasped, and turning, ran blindly toward 
the door, out of the room, up the stairs, and into her own 
room. She tossed the box on the bed, flung herself face 


176 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

downward, and clapped her hands to her ears as if to 
shut out something being shrieked at her. 

Suddenly she rolled over, sat up, white-lipped and 
trembling, as she said aloud: “Why, they don’t love 

one another! They don’t love- Oh, heavens! 

They don't love each other ! }> 



CHAPTER XXIII 


After lunch Jerry, evading Aunt Felicity’s watch¬ 
ful eye, her kindly but unnecessary cuddlings and at¬ 
tentions, got out of the house. He made for the forest 
—the forest where on his first night in Cornwall he had 
been after taking Celia home. 

He recalled the awakened bird, the scuttling hare— 
his accusers. Even then, within five hours of his 
arrival at Trewarthenith, he had, through his own con¬ 
science, felt himself labelled “impostor.” 

Could it be possible only a fortnight had elapsed 
since his arrival at Tolvean? What an absurd delusion 
actual time was. Fifteen days as reckoned by the 
calendar. Fifteen centuries as counted by the spirit. 

As far as actual events were concerned but little had 
happened since that Friday of a fortnight ago—little 
externally. Lady Boughton-Leigh had died—her death 
preceded by the renewal of her daughter’s lapsed en¬ 
gagement; Lady Boughton-Leigh had been buried; 
Polly had arrived in England; he, Jerry, had got drunk; 
the doctor had been called in and had given his patient 
“something to quiet him”; Celia had placed his engage¬ 
ment ring on her finger. Surely nothing very arresting 
or unusual in any of these events, badly stated! 

But—the colossal, the staggering contrast of the 
banal outer events and the crucial experiences of the 
soul! The amazing difference between the outer and 
inner lives we lead! Surely, thought Jerry, he had gone 
the entire gamut of the emotions, this past fortnight. 
. . . Was there any sensation left to yet experience? 
177 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


178 

He now knew the from-hell-to-heaven-and-back-again 
road of the human soul. 

Yet, supposing he were in a position to write any one, 
how trivial his letters would be. Letters! They are, 
as a rule, but masks. The reason, thought Jerry, we 
can’t keep in closer touch with those from whom we are 
long separated is that letters usually tell nothing that is 
vital, illuminating, or revealing. Letters for the most 
part consist of a mere statement of facts, a delineation 
of events—where the writer has been, what he has done 
—not what he has thought. No revelation reaches us of 
the inner life led by the distant loved one or friend, no 
glimpse given of the psychological experiences of the 
soul, the effect of actual events upon mind, spirit, and 
character, the far roads travelled by the imagination, 
the new horizons of the heart. Jerry felt he had been 
enormously undeveloped up to a fortnight ago; he 
couldn’t have realized all these things then, but he had 
grown up supernaturally, like Jack’s beanstalk, in the 
past fourteen days and nights. 

As he wandered as goalless as a butterfly, his 
thoughts flitted—not from flower to flower, but from 
thorn to thorn. He thought of Celia, of the clinching 
episode of the ring, of his hopeless love for Polly, of 
all the piercing, bruising circumstances developed by 
his false position. He felt himself a helpless insect. 
Fate seemed to love to lay a lot of fly-paper around 
and then watch the helpless human-insects walk on 
to it. . . . 

Jerry was blind to all beauty around him; he was 
unconscious of the sun, of dappling light on tree-trunks 
and ferns, of gradations of shadow and mystery, of the 
many eyes of wary, wild things concentrated stealthily 
upon his every movement, of the trepidations and flut- 
terings in the breasts of the hunted creatures, so 
trained, through inherited fears, to a distrust of man. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


179 


He threw himself down on a bed of dried, old-gold 
fern and concentrated on the thought of the doctor. 
He thought of the doctor’s question that morning re¬ 
garding his knowledge of the name of Jerrold Emerson 
Middleton. 

He must decide on what would be the most prudent, 
the most advantageous line to now pursue. According 
to Wiggs, the old goat intended to drop in again late 
that afternoon. 

“If I only know just what I said, I could plan,” 
thought Jerry. “If I only knew what his job-lots 
thinks, I could cope with the situation, but the rotten 
part of the thing is, I’m striking out into the dark what¬ 
ever I do, and when that’s the case, any move one 
makes is pretty sure to be the wrong one.” It was like 
staggering round one of those mazes, so dear to the 
English heart, only this maze had no centre, only de¬ 
ceptive paths leading one continually up against a blank 
hedge. 

After hours of concentration, during which Jerry 
mentally conceived and rejected a hundred different 
courses of action, he got to the point of confusion 
where his mind simply ran round and round a race¬ 
track. Exhausted physically, because utterly wearied 
mentally, he got up and dragged himself back through 
the woods, and across the meadows, home. 

It was past the tea hour, but the thoughtful Wiggs 
had placed a tray in Jerry’s bedroom; a silver kettle 
awaited him, steaming expectantly over methylated 
spirits. 

As Jerry sipped the most revivifying of all beverages, 
his exhaustion began to pass. He picked up a book 
from the table—one by Anatole France—and opened it 
at random. He read: 

“. . . Quand le systeme solaire n’etait encore qu’une 
pale nebuleuse, formant dans l’ether une couronne 


180 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

legere d’une circonference mille fois plus vaste que 
l’orbite de Neptune, il y avait belle lurette que nous 
etions tous conditiones, determines, destines irrevoca- 
blement et que votre responsabilite, ma chere enfant, 
la mienne, . . . celle de tous les hommes, etait, non 
pas attenuee, mais abolie d’avance. Tous nos mouve- 
ments, causes par des mouvements anterieurs de la 
matiere, sont soumis aux lois qui gouvernent les forces 
cosmiques, et la mecanique humaine n’est qu’un cas 
particulier de la mecanique universelle.” 

Jerry looked up from the page and mused. Same old 
cry of fatality! Same old cry of Sophocles. . . . 
Fated, predestined. . . . Mark Twain’s first impulse 
of the first atom. . . . 

Suddenly, like a flash of irradiation from without, 
his brain, having been lifted, by reading the thoughts 
of another, from his own thoughts, for even a few 
moments, became clear, and he saw what he consid¬ 
ered the rational course to be pursued with Dr. Barag- 
waneth. He put this decision into words a moment 
after the doctor’s entrance. 

“Look here,” said he in his most ingratiating, frank 
way. “I’ve got to beg your pardon for my rudeness 
this morning—and for something worse. ... I lied to 
you, sir.” 

The doctor waved a hand as if to dismiss the whole 
matter as of no consequence, but Jerry was determined 
to focus attention upon the importance of his morning’s 
behaviour. 

“I lied,” continued he—“lied almost involuntarily. 
You see it was the suddenness of your question. It 
seemed to hit me square in the centre of my brain. 
Something seemed to snap like that ”—Jerry snapped 
his fingers—“when you said the name of Middleton. 
I realized I had heard the name somewhere, sometime. 
It had a queer and almost uncomfortable familiarity 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


181 


just as if—how can I express it?—as if, for instance, I 
had been an actor and it might have been a character 
I had played—the role of Middleton. Do you see—do 
I make myself comprehensible ?” 

“I am very much interested,” said the doctor. “Go 
on.” 

“I remembered—that is, as I have said, I recognized 
a familiarity in the name, but instantly that familiarity 
began to grow faint, and my brain, memory wobbled. 
I distrusted my first impression. I denied it to myself 
and to you. I said the name stirred nothing—was 
totally unfamiliar to me.” 

The doctor was listening attentively, with a discon¬ 
certing degree of concentration. 

“And during the day,” said he to Jerry, “have you 
recalled in what relation that name stood to you or you 
to it?” 

“No,” said Jerry steadily; “and that’s where I want 
to enlist your assistance. I presume I must have sug¬ 
gested the name to you, by something I said, while 
under the influence of your quieting medicine. Won’t 
you help me by telling me in just what connection I 
used the name? It might make something stir here.” 
Jerry tapped his head. “You see”—he gave his most 
engaging smile, tempered by a certain degree of 
pathos—“I’ve only you to lean on for help.” 

The doctor was rhythmically tapping a finger on 
his leg. He mentally turned over his own intuitions, 
his theories; he formed a few new demi-opinions, and 
kept them all to himself. 

Jerry grew nervous under the tension of the delay¬ 
ing silence. “Can’t you help me?” he reiterated 
appealingly. 

“Afraid not,” said Dr. Baragwaneth. “I don’t really 
feel it would be wise. You must find out for yourself. 
Use*your brain, stimulate your memory, by trying to 


182 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


reach back. Try—but don’t try too hard. Say over 
to yourself every once in a while the name: Jerrold 
Emerson Middleton.” 

Jerry could endure no more of this maddening check¬ 
mating, intentional or unintentional. He decided that 
the doctor was maliciously playing the cat-and-mouse 
game with him. He leapt up with a suppressed oath 
and paced the floor. He came back and faced the 
doctor. “So you won't help me! ” he cried. 

“No,” said the doctor imperturbably. “You must 
solve your own problem. It lies with you to work out 
your own salavation.” 

Every word uttered by the doctor seemed to Jerry 
deliberately ambiguous. He thought: “He knows it 
all, dam’ him. He thinks he’s got me in his power. 
But I’ll never let him know I suspect that. Has he 
mentioned the name of Jerry Middleton to Aunt Fe¬ 
licity?” He turned and asked with a well-simulated 
casual interest: “What does my aunt think of it all?” 

“I have not yet discussed it with Miss Trevider,” 
said the doctor, with a slight stress on the word “yet.” 
“I want to go more deeply into the—er—matter, come 
to some definite conclusion, before I speak—report to 
her.” 

Cussed old fox! Checkmated again. . . . 

“I’ll see you from time to time,” said the doctor com¬ 
fortingly. “You see, Mr. Trevider, you must not forget 
I am entitled—under the circumstances of your afflic¬ 
tion—to regard you to a certain degree as a—er— 
mental case. You were very angry with me for drug¬ 
ging you, as you termed it; the peculiar propensities of 
your mental obsessions made it advisable, if not abso¬ 
lutely imperative; it was certainly advisable to keep 
you confined to your bed and render impossible your 
intention to take Scotch leave. I hope the desire to 
run away has now departed.” 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


183 


“Run away!” repeated Jerry in stupefaction. 

“Yes. Your servant informed Miss Trevider you 
had expressed your intention Wednesday night to clear 
out.” 

“Good Lord!” cried Jerry. “Did I say that?” 

“So it seems. Well, I wouldn’t do it if I were you.” 
The doctor smiled. “And now tell me—you feel none 
the worse for my treatment?” 

“Physically I feel bully—fitter than I’ve felt for a 
long time,” Jerry acknowledged. 

“Mentally you feel a little troubled, eh? Just so. 
Well, perhaps it’s only the clouds before clearing. Now 
I’m going to leave a tonic for you. You seem rather 
anaemic. Need general toning up. Think , but don’t 
worry. Worry is only sick thought. Sick thoughts 
never lead to anything healthy.” 

The doctor placed the bottle on the table and with¬ 
out the formality of a hand-clasp wished Jerry a good 
evening. 

Jerry, left alone, paced the confines of his room as 
a beast its cage. 

Pretty situation—was ever a man in a more dam¬ 
nable situation? If he didn’t go stark staring mad 
soon he’d be lucky. If Fate didn’t quickly make up his 
mind to open the door of escape he’d find his pawn too 
broken to provide any further amusement. There was 
one way to checkmate the Player—do away with one¬ 
self! Suicide looked dangerously seductive and trium¬ 
phant to Jerry just then. It was the one perfectly 
certain escape. No, dam’ it all! That might be only 
another design of Fate’s—to force him to self-inflicted 
death. He’d be stubborn. He’d not die to order. 
He’d fight, by Jingo! 

His impulse suddenly led him over to the bell-cord. 
He’d ring for Wiggs and tell him to bring a bottle of 
Scotch. No. . . . His hand fell. He couldn’t ever 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


184 

trust himself to enjoy the solace of Scotch. He’d 
proved he couldn’t drink as a gentleman, within decent 
limits. 

Wiggs would be coming in any moment now to say 
it was time to dress for dinner. The infernal wheels 
of routine, the machinery of the outer life, must go on 
killingly, no matter what inner conditions one was 
confronting and battling with. Hang it all—life was a 
damnable nuisance. . . . 

Into his consciousness came a strain of distant music. 
Some one was playing. No one had touched the baby 
grand in the drawing-room since his arrival. It had 
been as closed as a tomb. Who could it be? A memory 
of the hands of Polly, observed that first night at 
dinner, came back to Jerry. He’d realized those ca¬ 
pable-looking hands were made for something—imbued 
with the power to express beauty of some kind. He 
held his breath and listened. . . . Imperious, pas¬ 
sionate chords assaulted his heart. It was as if his 
heart became aeolian and the winds of heaven, blowing 
across the sea, swept the heart-strings. Into his mind 
came the words: 

“So on the ocean of life 
We speak one another in passing 
Only a word, a look, 

Then darkness again and a silence.” 

The music had hushed on a felt, rather than heard, 
chord. 

“Only a word, a look. . . .” That would probably 
be his portion of Polly. The hour he made his escape 
from the snare of circumstance meant darkness and 
silence for him—it would mean his loss of Polly for 
ever. 

To go back to the world—a world devoid of Polly— 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 185 

would it not be even more unendurable than the present 
world of deception and chaos? Never again to see 
those long lashes sweeping cheek, never again to feel 
those slim arms about his neck. . . . Would he have 
the strength to leave and lose it all when the moment 
of escape came? He groaned aloud. 

Walking to the window, he looked down on the 
formal, old-fashioned rose garden; his eyes strayed to 
the farther copse; his gaze came back to the terrace, 
passed the ha-ha, to the pasture land, where his own 
horse ruminatingly grazed, then over the distant hedges 
to the fair fields and the even-topped forest—so solid 
and firm one felt one could walk on top from tree to 
tree. Into the evening quietude stole the sweet sounds 
of country life—cows reminding milkers of the hour, 
birds twittering of the day’s gossip and the coming rest, 
the footfalls of hedgers tramping cottageward through 
the lanes. 

“And I must leave all this,” thought Jerry. Oh! 
the paradise it might have been, this dear old Cornish 
home, if only it could have been one’s own naturally, 
honestly. 

The rooks were now gathering in the old ivy-fes- 
tooned tree near Polly’s window. “So,” mused Jerry, 
“will my thoughts wing home to Tolvean every evening 
when I’m gone from here, as long as I live.” 

The odour of burning leaves came to his nostrils, 
borne on the evening breeze. 

His horse looked up from its grazing, and, as if 
seeing Jerry, whinnied. 

Jerry turned abruptly from the window, with a great 
sigh of yearning. 

In his heart was a prayer to Fate—a prayer for de¬ 
lay—delay in the opening of the door of escape. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


There were many responses to Sir Wilfred Bough- 
ton-Leigh’s advertisement for a companion for his 
daughter. One had been written on paper bearing a 
crest. He rejected that one. He was suspicious of 
crested, broken-down gentlewomen. He eventually de¬ 
cided on the widow of an officer of the Indian army, 
possessed of extraordinarily impressive references. He 
also liked her name—Spankie. It had a salubriously 
corrective sound. The name itself was chaperoning. 

The lady arrived on the 30th of October. Sir Wil¬ 
fred, on seeing her, delayed his intended immediate de¬ 
parture till the following Monday. Her beauty was 
disconcerting—superfluous in a companion—indiscreet 
in an indigent widow. Sir Wilfred kept her under a 
close and not unenjoyable scrutiny. After three days 
he decided she was safe. After all, the poor widowed 
creature could not be held personally responsible for 
the magnificent lines of form and feature inflicted upon 
her by a reckless Providence. Nature had safeguarded 
her by also bestowing a limited brain. A woman with 
brilliant mental powers—initiative, with those looks, 
would have been a menace to society. 

Sir Wilfred rubbed his hands together with extreme 
satisfaction over his choice. He could now return to 
London with complete ease of mind. It would be pleas¬ 
ant to think upon that strong, healthy, brainless, nerve¬ 
less Spankie in charge of his neurotic Celia. 

He departed, promising to return for the Christmas 
holidays. 


186 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 187 

Celia fortunately liked Mrs. Spankie. She found her 
congenial to her own present trend of thought and in¬ 
terest. Mrs. Spankie was decoratively religious. She 
liked forms and symbols. She approved of the high- 
churchness of Mr. Coolie. She enjoyed embroidering, 
in unison with Celia, the beautiful habiliments of the 
altar. Mrs. Spankie even discreetly used a certain per¬ 
fume which delicately suggested the odour of incense. 
Her exaggeratedly austere mourning subtly made one 
think of the vestments of a nun. 

Mr. Coolie immensely approved of Mrs. Spankie. 
He, however, sighed afresh whenever he contrasted her 
beauty of form with the lack of beauty of her bank 
account. No woman with those lines should be poor. 
It was inartistically brutal of circumstance. 

By the beginning of the second week of Mrs. 
Spankie’s reign, Celia was less enthusiastic over her 
companion—that is, less enthusiastic over leaving Mrs. 
Spankie and Mr. Coolie together, for spiritual talks, 
while she, in deference to her father’s expressed desires, 
“saw more” of her fiance. Somehow those drives and 
walks and games of golf with Monty were singularly 
tiresome. He seemed so preoccupied and dull. Of 
course after they were married it would perhaps be 
easier. Matrimony seemed to bring its own benumbing 
resignation. 

Celia believed herself entirely responsible for her 
now almost daily association with Jerry. Her vanity 
would have received a blow had she known that Jerry’s 
dutiful behaviour of the past week had been the out¬ 
come of the following conversation: 

“We haven’t had a ride together since I came back,” 
Polly had complained to Jerry the afternoon of Mrs. 
Spankie’s advent as she and he walked through a lane 
musical with the click-clicking of the hedgers’ knives 
and sickles. “You are always tearing about the estate 


i88 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


yourself, but here more than a week has passed since 
my return and never once have you invited me to go 
with you.’ 7 

Jerry thought of a little snapshot of Polly and her 
brother seen on a certain day of discovery. 

“Eve longed to, 77 he said. “I was waiting for you 
to suggest it. 77 

“What about to-morrow? 77 asked Polly. ‘That is, 77 
she hastily added, “if you 7 ve no engagement with 
Celia. 77 

“I 7 ve none, 77 said Jerry. 

“But shouldn't you? 77 asked Polly. “You two seem 
to see so little of each other. If I were engaged to a 
man I'd want to spend every possible hour with him. 
Don’t you feel that way? 77 

“I don't think Celia does, 77 parried Jerry. 

“But- 77 began Polly, then paused. 

“You see, 77 said Jerry, “Celia’s taken on a lot of 
parish visiting, theological instruction, and other uplift¬ 
ing things, so it doesn’t leave her much time to spend on 
unregenerate me." 

“Oh! 77 cried Polly in exasperation. “One can take to 
being religious when one is old and wrinkled. It’s 
uplifting enough just to breathe and be happy and love, 
when one is young. Every happy day is a living prayer 
to me." 

“Then, too," Jerry explained, “you see, I’m pretty 
much occupied myself. I’m trying to help, keep things 
under my eye—be of some use to Aunt Felicity. My 
tearing about the estate, as you call it, is not purpose¬ 
less, or just for my health." 

“Then why shouldn’t I go with you? I’m just as 
much interested in Tolvean as you are and I’d like to 
understand things." 

“Would you really care to—would you go about with 
me?" asked Jerry rather too eagerly. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


189 

l<i On condition,” said Polly, with the true feminine 
bargaining spirit. “If you’ll give some part of every 
day to Celia, I’ll ride with you every morning.” 

And so the days were planned. 

The daily association with Celia seemed only to con¬ 
vince Jerry of the insuperable barriers of their tempera¬ 
ments. A mutual affection for Celia’s dog was their 
one point of contact. 

The daily rides with Polly, the intimate association 
under the same roof, had developed the first infatua¬ 
tion of Jerry into a deep, abiding love—a love based on 
the fusion of tastes, which we term congeniality, and 
that less tangible, magic thing which makes a butterfly 
or bird know its mate from all others. 

During the past week Polly had imperceptibly grown 
more reserved, less demonstrative. 

She had abandoned that adorable impulsive wind¬ 
ing of her arms about her supposed brother’s neck. She 
no longer took the initiative in kissing. When the 
presence of Aunt Felicity demanded some form of af¬ 
fectionate good-night, Polly now offered only a cheek 
to Jerry. And it had been days since she had played 
that altogether silly but entrancing game of “Who’ you 
love?” 

Jerry was very unhappy. He believed his touch to 
be distasteful to Polly, and on those rare occasions 
when physical touch was required, he shrank from it 
as much as she. 

When Polly was not looking at him, Jerry concen¬ 
trated his eyes upon her with a devouring hunger of 
heart. When Jerry’s eyes were abstracted or diverted, 
Polly fixed a gaze upon him of unrest and perplexity. 

It was on the afternoon of the 7th of November that 
Jerry asked Polly to go with him to Penzance the fol¬ 
lowing day. To-morrow the carpenter-steward was to 
drive over in the wagon and meet him there. They 


190 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


were going to get estimates for timber and glass for the 
construction of new grape and peach houses, and to 
purchase some new garden tools for Stevens. 

“We’ll make a lark of it,” said Jerry—“spend one 
whole wonderful day together. The business end of it 
can be got over in no time, and then-” 

Polly might have said, “But we spend practically 
every day together anyhow,” but she didn’t. She prom¬ 
ised to be up in time to catch the ten-thirty train at St. 
Erth. 

It was while she was dressing next morning that the 
post was brought up. There were two letters for Polly 
—one from her maternal grandmother in Virginia. The 
other, the address of which was typed, bore the post¬ 
mark, Johannesburg. 

Polly’s brow puckered as she stared at the envelope. 
Johannesburg. . . . She knew no one in South Africa. 
Her fingers began to quiver. She had a curious pre¬ 
sentiment of being on the verge of something. 

The letter evidenced much travelling. It had been 
addressed to her in care of her grandmother. After 
lying about for probably a week—Polly knew her Vir¬ 
ginian grandmother’s leisurely, procrastinating methods 
—it had been forwarded to Charleston. There it had 
been readdressed to England. 

Polly tore the envelope open. 

It began: 

“My Dearest Polly.” 

She quickly turned the typed pages and read the 
written termination: 

“Your affectionate brother, Monty.” 

Polly trembled from head to foot. Her eyes were 
dilated. With unsteady fingers she turned the pages 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


191 


over and stared at the date, the 22 nd August. She 
reached for the calendar on her desk. The letter had 
been written two months and seventeen days ago. Aunt 
Felicity had seen the picture of the man with lost 
memory in the morning paper of the 3rd of October, 
and had gone up to London on Saturday, the 4th. Ex¬ 
actly six weeks had elapsed between the writing of that 
letter and the publication of the picture. Polly knew 
nothing about the length of time it would take for a 
voyage from South Africa by fast boat. It could prob¬ 
ably be done in six weeks. Had Monty written this 
letter before sailing for England—before that thing 
happened to his head? 

Far back in her brain the doubts bred of that first 
kiss again stirred. Had she not instinctively felt more 
and more a lack of familiarity in the touch of the 
Monty now under that roof? Had she not felt an ever¬ 
growing disinclination to touch him? 

The next moment her doubts began to slip away. Of 
course the letter had been written by this Monty before 
—before some accident had befallen him. 

So perturbed and torn was she between doubts and 
efforts to be loyal to her aunt’s convictions, Polly 
scarcely took in the opening lines of the letter, and 
began to digest the context only when she reached the 
following: 

“And so I really more than covered my expenses out 
here, in the smoking-room. Held ripping hands the 
whole voyage. Some very decent English people, living 
in South Africa, evidently thought me a scion of a dis¬ 
tinguished English family, and the lady—just at the 
protecting age—especially took me under her brooding 
wing. She invited me to visit them. I did—for two 
months. Then I was out on my own, and a pretty 


192 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


variegated own it was. At first I stayed at a club— 
my late host had put me up for membership—where 
I hoped to cover expenses by cards. I had bad luck 
and was posted for arrears. A wise choice at the races, 
however, enabled me to square up at the club and left 
me a little over. 

“It hadn’t occurred to me up to this time that I might 
earn money by working. That fact I learned perforce 
pretty soon. A fellow-member of the club—a draper, 
in fact—knew me to be on my uppers and approached 
me with an astounding proposition. He informed me I 
could ‘wear’ my clothes and look impressive—look like 
race. He wanted me to become floor-walker in his 
men’s department. Can you see me? Have you suffi¬ 
cient imagination to picture it? Surely no penal servi¬ 
tude behind bars ever equalled that! I was glad to 
leave and enlist. The war was then merrily humming. 
I saw service here in Africa for twenty months, then 
got crocked up—properly smashed. Piece of shrapnel 
in the head, bone of leg splintered just below the knee. 
I was in hospital some months—they didn’t X-ray the 
leg at first and didn’t realize facts until a piece of bone 
worked out. I was on crutches for seven months and 
on canes for months more. I’ve only recently got over 
the limp, which probably saved my life. 

“As a war victim I had several jobs offered me. I 
accepted one in a stockbroker’s office, and found my 
utility. In spite of some rises and declines in my for¬ 
tunes I am pretty well fixed to-day. Good salary and 
good opportunities for investments on inside informa¬ 
tion. 

“I wanted to wait till I could write you the above 
line—‘pretty well fixed.’ I’ve not yet got the nerve to 
write Aunt Felicity, because I’ve developed—during the 
war—that nasty, prickly thing—a conscience. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


193 


“I may give myself the pleasure of a visit to England 
and fetch along the thousand I dropped at Newbury, 
to give Aunt Felicity a pleasant surprise. It would be 
immensely diverting to enact the role of Prodigal 
Nephew. Do you think she’d give me a welcome? 

“In looking back I seem an unconscionable ass to 
myself. What in the deuce did I want to flounce off 
into space like that for? I don’t know. It evidenced 
a tragic sort of innocence and ignorance of the world. 
I’ve learned the difficulty of forcing the world to sup¬ 
port one. I wouldn’t have the courage to do it all over 
again now. It’s as a fair lady, with her third husband, 
said to me the other day: ‘If a woman is going to get 
a divorce, let her get it in her youth. She won’t have 
the courage after forty.’ 

“I’m only barely twenty-six, but my nerve’s gone. 
So if I come home be prepared to see a very much tamed 
and commonplace edition of the former me. 

“I’ve always felt I could count on you, Polly. 
You’ve been a sort of spirit level to me—in thought— 
all the way through. Perhaps you’ll drop me a line. 
Keep my secret until I give you permission to tell 
Aunt Felicity, or until I write that I’m coming. 

“I wonder if you’re married by now. I’m sending 
this in care of Grandmother Beverly, because I some¬ 
how feel you are in Virginia. 

“I didn’t know how deucedly lonely I am till I began 
to write this letter. I miss you awfully and Aunt Fe¬ 
licity too. She was a brick, after all. 

“And Celia? Jove! but I behaved shabbily there. 
I hope her affection for me was only puppy love, as 
mine for her undoubtedly was. 

“Well, perhaps luck will be with me, and I’ll soon 
see the cliffs of dear old Blighty again. 

“Heaps of love and no end of good wishes from 
your affectionate brother, Monty.” 


194 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Polly shivered. She threw a dressing-gown about 
her. Suddenly she burst into tears and laid her head 
down on the desk. 

A rap sounded. 

Polly, the letter crushed in one hand, opened the 
door. 

Jerry stood outside, his face beaming with expecta¬ 
tion. 

Polly stared at him as one seeing a ghost. Was he 
or was he not the Monty who had written the letter she 
held? 

Jerry had intended to say, “We must hurry, if we’re 
going to catch the train,” but the words froze on his 
lips as he saw Polly’s tear-filled eyes, white face, and 
dressing-gown. 

“Polly! What’s wrong?” he asked anxiously. 

Polly, more than ever torn by conflicting emotions, 
gazed at him searchingly. 

“I can’t go with you,” she said brokenly. “I’m not 
well—don’t question me—just go—please go-” 

Jerry turned miserably away and went down the 
stairs. 



CHAPTER XXV 


Jerry flung himself into a third-class smoking com¬ 
partment. The only other occupant was engrossed in 
The Western Morning News. 

Jerry was glad Trevorrow had driven over to Pen¬ 
zance. He didn’t like Trevorrow at any time. He 
would have especially disliked him this morning. 

He had at last convinced Miss Felicity of the incom¬ 
petence of her temporary steward. He had persuaded 
the little lady to insert an advertisement for a trained 
man. Then Jerry had had the pleasure of breaking the 
news to Trevorrow that he must be prepared to abdi¬ 
cate the stewardship and return to his former sphere of 
carpenter, plain and simple. That had been yesterday. 
Jerry flushed angrily as he recalled the man’s sullen 
silence, the Cornish lower class inscrutability, the elo¬ 
quent sneering twist of the upper lip. He would prob¬ 
ably give notice. So much the better. It would be 
difficult for him to fill a subordinate position now. 
Jerry longed to make a clean sweep of Trevorrow, 
Stevens senior, and Stevens junior. The men seemed to 
sense his disapproval and lapsed into aloof silence on his 
approach. They probably called him “furrener” and 
then spat, the moment his back was turned. 

“Darn’ ’em!” thought Jerry. “With their primitive 
instincts they probably sense that I don’t ‘belong’ to 
be here.” 

A bruising realization came to him of his unpopular¬ 
ity. “I don’t seem to be a howling success as a fasci¬ 
nator. So far as I can see, Aunt Felicity and Wiggs 
195 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


196 

are the only ones who give a hang about me. Sir Wil¬ 
fred apparently likes me—but that’s because he thinks 
I’m Monty Trevider. Celia is antagonistic and Polly 
is indifferent. Paynter accepts me, but everybody else 
on the place resents me as a sort of Mr. Butinski and 
Citizen Fix-it.” 

What could be the matter with Polly? Was she 
really ill? Why was she crying? Did all women cry 
when they felt ill? Then Jerry remembered having 
been subconsciously aware that she had held a crushed 
letter in her hand. Good God! Was Polly in love—in 
love with some other man? Was that letter from a 
lover? 

Jerry suddenly experienced all the inquisition of 
jealousy. A vain man is never jealous. Jerry was 
painfully modest and distrustful of himself. He could 
see no earthly reason why any woman should love him, 
every reason why she should love another. 

He gave such a tremendous and heart-rending sigh 
that it gave the impression of being a variety of groan. 
The man opposite looked up from his paper with a cold 
stare. It was so un-English to give public vent to the 
private emotions. The man decided that his travelling 
companion was undoubtedly a foreigner. He resumed 
his reading behind a paper which was now held up in 
the form of a barrier, behind which the reader could be 
and feel enormously and disapprovingly English. 

And this was to have been their day—Polly’s and 
his. Jerry hadn’t known how much he had counted on 
the joy of a day spent uninterruptedly with Polly until 
he had to face it alone. 

It promised to be a beautiful day, of the pallid Cor¬ 
nish variety. The sun had the aspect of a shy 
debutante, only suggesting the ripe fullness to come. 

The sea was the palest of silver-greys. The sky a 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


197 

pearl warmed with a flush left over from the late sun¬ 
rise. The sands were blanched to a bluish tint. 

In the all-pervading pallor of sea and sky and land, 
a viridian patch of broccoli appeared overbold in colour, 
out of value. 

Jerry found himself thinking that each day, with its 
transition from morn to noon, its drift from noon to 
afternoon, and its decline to evening, was symbolical of 
life. There was comfort, however, in the knowledge 
that after all, frequently the loveliest time of the day 
was the restful period which came with and after the 
sunset. His own high noon of life was a stretch of 
glaring perplexities and unendurable miseries. Per¬ 
haps the evening of the years would bring compensa¬ 
tion, understanding, and peace. He realized that this 
trend of thought held little of the characteristics of 
youth. It was rather imbued with the tired qualities 
of middle age. Jerry felt himself old, almost beaten. 

St. Michael’s Mount loomed up a dark, detailless, 
magical form against an opaque sky. It challenged 
Jerry’s attention and held it spellbound for a moment. 
The castle was perched just as one’s childish imagina¬ 
tion had built fairy castles to fit into the stories of 
Hans Andersen and Grimm. But the beauty of it hurt, 
as all beauty must, when seen alone. Oh! if Polly were 
only with him. . . . 

Arrived in Penzance, he followed the other traveller’s 
trail up Market Jew Street. He was to meet Trevor row 
near the Davy Statue. Yes, there he was waiting him 
on the kerb. 

Jerry had exchanged only a few words with the 
carpenter when his voice was drowned by the sudden 
honk of a motor-horn of the worst new variety, counter¬ 
feiting an attack of membranous croup. 

The driver of the car glanced toward the pavement. 
He saw Jerry. From his eye flashed a look of incredu- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


198 

lity, surprise. He turned the car toward the kerb a 
little farther down the street, brought it to a stop, 
helped the ladies to descend, and made for the spot 
where Jerry and Trevorrow had been standing. They 
had just left and were walking past the market house. 

Jerry was brought to a halt by the greatest shock 
he had ever experienced. 

“Jerry Middleton! Well, of all the unexpected meet¬ 
ings! Who’d have thought of finding you here at the 
tip end of nowhere ?” 

Jerry saw the look on Trevorrow’s face, a sort of 
malicious glee mingled with astonishment. 

He pulled his own expression and wits together in 
record-breaking time. Assuming the cold English 
stare w T ith which he had become so familiar, he wheeled 
and faced the man who had accosted him. 

He recognized a fellow-countryman, an American 
journalist, one Louis Wells, who had fought with him, 
been his “buddy,” in fact, during the early years of the 
war in the Legion Etranghe. Wells had got trans¬ 
ferred to the American section, after his country had 
entered the war, and, so Jerry had heard, done great 
work as a war correspondent. 

Wells, unaffected by the English stare assumed by 
Jerry, slapped his old pal resoundingly on the shoulder 
and cried: 

“Well, I’ll be damned! Funny, contracted little 
world we live in. . . . Well, how goes it, Middleton? 
Can’t you give a fellow a paw?” 

“I’m sorry,” said Jerry icily, “but there’s evidently 
some mistake.” He reached in a breast-pocket, ex¬ 
tracted a card from a case, and extended it to the 
puzzled but not-to-be-dampened Wells. 

Mr. Wells read the name of “Mr. Norman Montagu 
Trevider,” and looked up quizzically. 

“What’s the joke?” 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


199 


“There is no joke. I merely presented you my card, 
with my regrets that I do not chance to know you.” 
He achieved the word “chance” with an English intona¬ 
tion which caused him no little pride. 

“Well, I am damned!” said Mr. Wells. 

Trevor row was standing by, all eyes and ears. Jerry 
was agonizingly aware of this audience. He forced 
himself to maintain a calm, and nonchalantly took a 
cigarette from his case, without asking Mr. Wells to 
have one. He struck a match and lit his cigarette with 
studied deliberation. 

“As I said,” remarked Mr. Wells, “I’m good and god¬ 
damned. I’d have sworn on a stack of Bibles as high 
as the Woolworth Building that you were an American 
—one Jerry Middleton who fought like hell beside me 
in France—who got hit by the same shell. Good Lord! 
I can’t be mistaken. This world isn’t full of twins. 
You’re sure you’re not guying me—that it’s not a gag 
of some sort?” 

“Really!” said Jerry. “You surely don’t expect me 
to exhibit the marks of my underwear, do you? Will 
the monogram on my cigarette-case afford you any com¬ 
forting reassurance as to my truthfulness?” 

He held out the case bearing the initials “N. M. T.” 

“The drinks are on me,” sighed Mr. Wells. “You’ll 
surely let me set ’em up, won’t you?” 

“Rather!” said Jerry. He felt the utmost relief at 
the opportunity presented for terminating the intoler¬ 
able triangle of which Trevorrow formed the most 
rasping point. 

“I’ll meet you in half an hour at the statue,” said 
he to the carpenter. “In the meantime, you might get 
the garden tools for Stevens. You can select them 
without my help.” 


200 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Trevorrow turned on his heels without responding. 
He didn’t remember to tip his cap. 

“The ladies will want to poke about the curiosity 
shops,” said Wells, “so I’m free for the time. But, 
my George! I can’t get over your not being my old 
chum, Middleton. As like as two peas and some 
more. Never heard of such a coincidence. It’s like 
some blasted picture stunt. Here’s my card. Wells 
is my name. Business: pushing the pen. What’s 
yours?” 

“Haven’t any,” said Jerry. 

“Just live?” asked Wells in stupefaction. 

“Yes, just live,” sighed Jerry, “and that can be a 
jolly hard profession at times, you may be sure.” 

“Jolly hard!” Wells repeated, with a roar of laugh¬ 
ter. 

“Now you’ve convinced me! Convinced me as all 
your pasteboard and engraved monogram couldn’t, 
My Jerry Middleton couldn’t have said that to save 
his blasted neck. No, not to save himself from being 
shot. Here we are.” The had reached The Western. 

“Now we’ll wet our whistles and drink to the health 
of my old chum, Jerry Middleton, wherever that poor 
devil of a twin may be.” 

And so Jerry had the pleasure of drinking to himself. 
He had never drunk so sincerely to any health before. 

“Happiness; and may fate be kind to him,” he said 
as he touched his glass to that of his old friend. 

“Well,” said Wells, putting his glass down after the 
third emptying, “you’ve given me a rare jolt. I’ll have 
to work it up into a yarn—case of mistaken identity. 
Hope you’ll look me up if you’re in London, Mr.-” 

“Trevider,” supplied Jerry. 

“These Cornish names are sure some tongue- 
twisters,” said Wells. “Well, Mr. Trevider, I hope 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


201 


we’ll meet again. I’ll be in London for several months. 
A line to the Authors’ Club will always find me.” 

They walked back rather silently to the market 
house. Trevorrow had not yet returned. Jerry felt 
glad of a few moments’ respite. 

“So long,” said Wells, and held out his hand. Jerry 
grasped it with an almost Coolie-like violence. He 
held it a trifle overlong. He hated to let go. 

“So long,” he said, and was aware of a slight huski¬ 
ness and tremulousness in the tone. 

Wells swung off. He turned when a short distance 
away and waved a hand. 

Jerry stood watching the receding figure of the only 
old friend he probably had in all England. His heart 
was leaden. He found himself wondering just what he 
might have done had not that infernal Trevorrow been 
present. He believed he would have confessed himself 
to be Jerry Middleton. He could have risked being 
himself for one half-hour. There would have been 
small chance of it leading to any complication. Oh! 
to have just been himself for one blessed restful 
minute. . . . 

He thought of all the things he might have said to 
Wells. How they could have relived the old days in 
France! What reminiscences might they not have 
revelled in! He thought of all the questions he might 
have asked. Wells had probably kept in touch with 
a lot of their old pals. His breast ached with a long¬ 
ing for news of old friends. 

He was curbing a mad desire to sprint after Wells, 
to catch him before he had passed for ever beyond 
reach, to seize him and shriek in his ear, “I am Jerry 
Middleton. For God’s sake stay with me for a while. 
I am so darned lonely.” 

But the body of Jerry stood rigidly immobile. 


202 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Trevorrow approached. Jerry went forward to meet 
him. He pushed the thought of Wells from him and 
reminded himself of the peach and grape houses for 
Aunt Felicity. He had again become the pseudo 
Monty Trevider. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Polly spent a day of mental pandemonium. She 
had read the letter from her brother over and over. 
By noon she had still no sense of certainty, conviction. 
Had it been written by this Monty? It sounded like 
the old Monty; it did not sound like the new one. She 
reminded herself of the abnormalities which might nat¬ 
urally result from the illness or accident which had 
caused loss of memory. 

There was one fact which couldn’t be got over. This 
Monty had called her by name, recognized her the mo¬ 
ment he saw her. That surely was conclusive proof 
that he was her brother. 

If then this was the real Monty, what had become 
of the thousand pounds he had said he was bringing to 
restore to Aunt Felicity? Then she remembered that 
Aunt Felicity had drawn her attention to the statement 
in the newspaper that only twopence had been found on 
him, and the theory of the police that he had been the 
victim of robbery and violence. 

Yes, her poor brother had probably been assaulted 
because of that thousand pounds; no doubt some blow 
on the head had been responsible for the loss of his 
memory. 

“But,” thought Polly, “I’ve never felt perfectly cer¬ 
tain that this Monty is my Monty. Doubts came to me 
within ten minutes of our meeting. Why should I 
alone have doubted? Why couldn’t I have had the 
same conviction every one else had?” 

It was a long time before Polly began to realize— 
203 


204 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


and then with something very like consternation—that 
she didn’t want to believe that the Monty, now in Pen¬ 
zance, was her brother. Why? She sat up stiffly and 
tried to turn the searchlight of investigation on her 
secret self. Why, she asked herself squarely, would she 
feel immensely relieved and vastly happier if it could 
be proved that the real Monty was at this moment in 
Johannesburg? 

“It isn’t because I don’t like this Monty. I like him 
—very much. Then why?” 

Polly was unaware of the fact that she had used 
the word “like” instead of the more natural one “love.” 
There was some feminine instinct which checked each 
attempt she made to honestly get at the psychology of 
her feeling for Jerry. 

If, by chance, it developed that the genuine Monty 
was in South Africa, what then was to be done with 
the stranger whom Aunt Felicity had claimed as her 
nephew? Would he have to be thrown out into the 
world, homeless, devoid of memory of his past, friend¬ 
less, penniless? At this thought Polly involuntarily 
put her hand to her heart. Oh! that would be terrible 
—terrible. 

No, she liked him far too much to have any share 
in bringing such a cruel misfortune upon him. 

She was glad Monty had asked her to keep his letter 
a secret. She believed she would have kept her lips 
sealed, anyway. Fate, unassisted by her, must solve 
the riddle. Not a word would she utter to Aunt Felicity 
upon her doubts. Not a doubting look henceforth at 
the so-called Monty. 

Supposing he did turn out to be some one else, it 
was not his fault, poor thing, that he was here. He 
hadn’t claimed to be anybody. He couldn’t help him¬ 
self when Aunt Felicity took possession of him. He 
had been as helpless as a lost puppy or kitten which 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


205 

some one had decided to adopt without so much as 
saying, “By your leave.” 

If he turned out to be a spurious Monty, then it 
would certainly be up to Aunt Felicity and herself to 
compensate him somehow for all the trouble and em¬ 
barrassment they would have been instrumental in 
bringing upon him. 

The more she defended Jerry in her own mind, the 
more Polly became aware of her tenderness toward the 
object of her defence. She eventually realized what a 
void would be made in her own life should the man, 
whom Aunt Felicity so unquestionably accepted as 
Monty, be forced to leave Tolvean for ever. 

“Which all proves,” thought Polly, “he must be the 
real Monty. I couldn’t feel so wretched at the thought 
of losing him if he were a total stranger. If he were no 
relative I’d not care a straw what became of him. But 
there you are—I do care—care terribly much.” 

Then she thought of the indisputable resemblance 
to her brother—the unmistakable Trevider features. 
Monty had always resembled poor Uncle Cecil more 
than dear papa. The portrait of Uncle Cecil in the 
hall could have passed for a painting of Monty at fif¬ 
teen. And this Monty found in London had the same 
engaging smile, the same tilt of the eyebrow, the same 
dip of hair in the centre of his forehead. 

In spite of such deductions and her enforced faith 
in the identity of Jerry as her brother, Polly, several 
times during the day, had an almost irresistible impulse 
to answer the letter from Johannesburg. She, however, 
restrained herself. To write would be to confess to 
herself that she actually believed Monty to be on the 
other side of the world. That would be utterly dis¬ 
loyal to this Monty. 

She’d be awfully kind and affectionate to him when 
he returned this evening from Penzance. She’d make 


206 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


up to him for the disappointment she’d given him this 
morning. She’d prove to herself her perfect faith in 
him, her conviction that he was her brother. 

So it was she kept all doubts at bay, during tea with 
Aunt Felicity, and she decided to put on her prettiest 
frock—the one she had worn the evening of her return 
—to make herself especially pretty for her own dear 
brother that evening. 

She was combing her hair when, after a hurried 
knock, Paynter bustled in, her ruddy face ruddier 
than usual and her hands thrown up in the exclama¬ 
tory gesture which, with her, usually preluded the 
detailing of some tremendous piece of gossip, or the 
announcement of a household calamity. 

“Lord! Miss Polly,” she exhaled excitedly, “ ’ee 
should see Mr. Wiggs!” 

“Wiggs?” asked Polly. 

“Yes’m. Eye black, green, blue—a proper rainbow, 
I can tell ’ee. But that be nothing as to’ow Trevorrow 
do look. ’Ee ought to see he” 

“What’s the matter? Has there been an accident?” 
Polly queried. 

“Accident! No’m. Just a plain proper fight. Mr. 
Wiggs just struck out at Trevorrow an’ nearly scat ’is 
skool abroad, an’ when Trevorrow rose up agin ’e made 
fer Mr. Wiggs’s eye and closed it, but Mr. Wiggs could 
still see with the other eye and ’e struck and laid Tre¬ 
vorrow out as flat as a kippered herrin’.” Paynter 
broke off to blow her nose and chuckle in her handker¬ 
chief. “It were a sight to cure sore eyes. Trevorrow 
ain’t got manners—never takes the trouble to scrape 
’is feet afore cornin’ in the kitchen—trackin’ the floor 
up with muck and doong. . . .” 

“But,” said Polly, “what in the world did Wiggs 
want to attack the carpenter for?” 

“ ’Cause ’e be fer sayin’ as ’ow the young master 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


207 


wasn’t ’imself, that ’e were an impostor. ’E only got 
that word out once when Mr. Wiggs silenced of ’im.” 

“But why should Trevorrow dare say such a thing?” 
asked Polly, feeling a queer thumping in her breast. 

“Well it do seem as ’ow, according to Trevorrow, a 
stranger walked up to the master in Penzance to-day 
and called him by some name what wasn’t Trevider. 
I fergit what ’e said the name were. The carpenter 
pretends as ’ow the master give a start an’ showed ’e 
recognized the name. But Mr. Monty then says as ’ow 
’e never laid eyes on the stranger afore, an’ didn’t know 
what ’e be talking about. Trevorrow says ’e saw the 
master were lyin’, an’ then and there ’e brought out 
the word Tmpostor!’ and Mr. Wiggs finished the sen¬ 
tence fer ’im with a blow.” 

Polly was lost in thought for a moment, then she 
said: 

“I wouldn’t disturb my aunt with any of these silly 
tales, if I were you, Paynter. It’s all nonsense, of course, 
and Wiggs was very foolish to take any notice of what 
Trevorrow said. He’s simply sore because he knows 
we are trying to get a new steward, and he probably 
thinks my brother is responsible for the change. Don’t 
say anything to Miss Trevider, and see that the matter 
is dropped in the servants’ hall.” 

“Yes’m, of course. I’ll do jest as ’ee says, but, Lord! 
Miss Polly, Mr. Wiggs do look such a sight! an’ ’e do 
belong to be a ’andsome sort of man, ordinary.” Payn¬ 
ter took herself off, still bristling with unspent excite¬ 
ment. 

Polly stood for a moment with her hands clasped 
behind her head. Over her face crept a warm colour, 
and to her lips came a soft smile. Intuition—feminine 
intuition had at last brought conviction! With that 
conviction came a curious sense of happiness and relief. 

Forgetting that she had intended to dress at once 


208 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


for dinner, she sat down at her desk, took out a sheet 
of paper, and wrote: 

“Dearest Monty:” 

She filled two sheets only. The letter expressed the 
delight she had felt on hearing from him again, her un¬ 
changed affection, and her hope that she would soon 
see him in England. Not a word did she write of the 
presence at Tolvean of the man whose footsteps she 
had just heard passing her door. 

Polly’s heart beat a little faster as she listened to 
the footfalls dying away. Another smile quivered over 
her lips. 

The letter finished, it was put in an envelope, ad¬ 
dressed to Johannesburg, and locked in the desk 
drawer. 

Upstairs at that moment Jerry was confronting a 
remarkable-looking valet. 

“What the deuce!” he exclaimed as he took in the 
disfigurement of Wiggs’s countenance. 

“A little accident, sir,” said Wiggs. “Came in in 
the dark, and in stooping to mend the fire I unfortu¬ 
nately collided with the sharp comer of the over¬ 
mantel.” 

“Hard luck,” said Jerry sympathetically. “Must 
hurt like the very devil.” 

“No, sir, not at all,” said Wiggs, “but I regret being 
such an unpleasant object to look upon.” 

Alice at that moment tapped at the door, and to 
Wiggs’s surprise he was told that Miss Polly wished 
to see him in her room. 

That young lady insisted upon personally bathing 
Wiggs’s damaged eye with boracic acid. She would 
have put on a compress and bandage had not Wiggs 
respectfully but firmly rebelled. At the conclusion of 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


209 


her attentions, Polly, to the embarrassment of Wiggs, 
attempted to slip a new, crisp pound note into his 
palm. 

“No, miss—thank you, but I couldn’t take it—really, 
Miss Polly, I couldn’. Not that I don’t appreciate it, 
but . . ” 

Polly didn’t urge the note. Instead she said: 

“Then may I shake your hand?” 

Wiggs was so flabbergasted, his hand had been 
shaken before he had recovered his presence of mind. 
When he came to, Polly had vanished from the room 
and he was alone, staring down on a very lame right 
hand, which now somehow felt it had been canonized. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


Throughout dinner Polly had talked incessantly. 
Jerry looked up at her several times with a puzzled 
expression. Polly was not usually a chatterbox. When 
a normally reserved person babbled, it denoted purpose 
of some kind. It was a variety of camouflage. 

He contrasted her over-emphasized evening gaiety 
with the tears of the morning. Again a wave of jealousy 
passed over him. 

Each time he looked at her and she detected him 
looking, she quickly withdrew her eyes. 

Jerry said but little. It had been a rotten day. The 
business in Penzance had consumed only a little over 
an hour. Trevorrow had then departed in the wagon 
for Tolvean. Jerry had tramped through the Morrab 
gardens and up and down the sea-front for hours, re¬ 
living over and over his brief encounter with Wells. 
He had eaten no lunch. 

Dinner had been later than usual. The excitement * 
and gossip of the kitchen staff over the Wiggs-Tre- 
vorrow fight had been delaying. Coffee was about to be 
served when a servant announced that Miss Bough ton- 
Leigh and Mrs. Spankie were in the drawing-room. 

“How nice of them to come over,” said Miss Felicity. 
“I seem to see so little of dear Celia these days. Wee’ll 
have the coffee served in the drawing-room.” 

Polly found herself eyeing Celia with a new interest, 
in view of the letter she had that morning received, 
and the intuitive conclusion she had since two hours 
ago reached. She wondered what Celia would do 
210 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


2 II 


should she discover the real Monty was now in South 
Africa, and the supposed Monty was but a mysterious 
stranger dropped fortuitously into their lives, from an 
unfathomable sky. 

Polly relived the episode of the engagement ring, 
and felt surprised that she was no longer pained by 
the evidenced lack of love between the affianced ones. 

She observed that Monty chose the chair next to that 
of the beautiful Mrs. Spankie. Celia’s attentions were 
engaged by Miss Felicity. Polly sat aloof, an interested 
yet preoccupied spectator. 

She subtly felt an object in the call. Celia somehow 
looked loaded. 

During a general pause in the conversation of the 
four, Celia asked Polly to play to them. Mrs. Spankie 
adored music. 

Polly knew that Celia pretended to a musical dis¬ 
cernment which only a Debussy could satisfy. She 
could surmise nothing of Mrs. Spankie’s tastes. Aunt 
Felicity’s were as yet still in the “Drink to Me only 
with Thine Eyes,” Madam, will You Walk?” period. 
Jerry’s were unknown, but hopefully counted on. She 
herself felt a desire for an expression of violence of 
colour and passion, and for the simplest of sentiments 
—perhaps even the sentimental. 

She lifted the top of the baby grand as one would 
open a window for more air. She sat, keenly aware of 
the eyes and ears of Jerry concentrated upon her. 

She psychologically measured his attuned, vibrant 
senses, even before she pressed her fingers down on 
those first hushed, sustained, painted chords of Josef 
Hofmann’s “L’Orient et L’Occident.” Her foot trem¬ 
bled on the pedal, her arms quivered with nerve tension, 
yet she had control of herself and played as she had 
never played before, sensing as she had not hitherto 
sensed the unbridled colour of the Orient, the camel 


212 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


bells, the shrouded women, the riot of raw life, of love, 
and over all the impenetrable mystery of the East; and, 
too, she comprehended that sad presentment of the 
Occident—an effete Occident, anaemic in its over-civil¬ 
ization, attentuated by its culture, its ugly shams 
masked under a cloying sweetness, the greed of its na¬ 
tions disguised under a cry of righteousness. She was 
glad to leave its so badly veiled and easily divinable 
features and return to those few last notes which were 
like a remembered, haunting echo from the realms of 
the Prophet. 

When she lifted her foot from the pedal and the 
vibrations of those last three inscrutable chords became 
stilled, she deafened herself to the banalities of praise 
from Mrs. Spankie and Celia. Her heart glowed with 
a knowledge of all that lay under Jerry’s silence. He 
alone had been her audience. He alone had understood 
what she had seen and felt. 

With a curious little smile, she was playing again, 
and again she was playing alone to Jerry, talking to 
him in a language known only to them two, of a land 
unknown to the others present. 

She played “Way Down upon the Swanee River,” 
“Dixie,” and “Maryland, my Maryland.” 

Polly had that ineffable magic which can transfuse 
the simplest melody with charm and wistfulness. 

Her fingers were playing upon every homesick chord 
in Jerry’s being. He suffered with every note, yet 
dreaded the last tone of those songs so inexpressibly 
dear to a Southern heart. 

Celia had begun to talk to Miss Felicity before 
“Maryland, my Maryland” was more than half finished. 

Jerry winced and Polly looked up, met his eye for 
a second, and felt an electric spark go down her spine. 

“Thank you, dear. Thanks so much,” said Aunt 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 213 

Felicity. “There is so much real music in those simple 
airs.” 

“Very sweet,” said Mrs. Spankie. She had also said 
“Very sweet” to Hofmann’s overwhelming tone paint¬ 
ing. She’d probably say “Very sweet” after Massenet’s 
Elegy, thought Polly. 

Aunt Felicity turned to Jerry. “Monty, Celia wants 
to borrow The Saint, by that unpronouncable Italian 
author. He begins with F. Won’t you be so good as 
to get it from the library?” 

Jerry rose, glad of an opportunity for a moment’s 
escape. 

“I’ll go with you to hunt for it,” said Celia. 

Polly thought: “I knew it. She came for a pur¬ 
pose.” To Mrs. Spankie she said: “And how do you 
like our Cornwall?” 

Celia apparently forgot her desire for the book the 
moment she reached the library, for she flung herself 
down on a chair and blurted out: 

“I had to trump up an excuse—make an opportunity 
to see you alone, Monty. There are things I must say, 
no matter how much they will hurt. I can’t go on an¬ 
other day like this—living this horrible farce.” 

Jerry got out his cigarette-case, offered it to Celia, 
lit both cigarettes, and then sat down 

“Yes?” said he interrogatively. 

“I mean about our engagement.” 

“What about it?” 

“That I can’t endure it another hour—living this 
lie. I don’t love you—there’s the long and short of it. 
It has become more evident to me every day of our 
engagement. We are not interested in the same things, 
you—we don’t understand each other, we haven’t a 
thought in common. We once had, but I’ve changed— 
you’ve changed. I don’t want to say anything unpleas- 


214 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


ant, Monty, but I must say I could never he happy with 
a man whom I consider utterly materialistic.” 

“Yes?” said Jerry, as he watched a smoke ring he 
had unintentionally achieved. 

“Our hands were forced. We were flung into the 
thing unfairly. Don’t think for a moment I’m blaming 
poor dear mama. I understand her point of view per¬ 
fectly. She was thinking only of my happiness. She 
thought my future happiness lay with you. She was 
judging me by my silly girlhood. She couldn’t realize 
how much my ideals have changed. I didn’t realize 
it myself until put to the test by this engagement. It 
has grown more and more unendurable. I’m sure mama 
would be the first to want to rescue me from a lifelong 
wretchedness—to undo the unhappiness which she in 
her mistaken love of me has brought about. 

“But it has been so difficult to know what to do— 
what I ought to do. I’ve felt so chaotic. And I felt 
I had no one to turn to for advice. Father wouldn’t 
understand. He would only be horrified. He would 
tell me I am being disloyal to my mother’s memory, 
dishonourable to you. I felt I must talk to some one, 
and I have.” 

Celia did not go into the details of her own psychol¬ 
ogy during the past week. She did not delineate the 
effect upon herself of the ever-growing interest, evinced 
by Mr. Coolie, in the soul of that beautiful pauper, 
Mrs. Spankie. She ignored her own realization of the 
necessity of diverting interest Spankieward by a con¬ 
centration of it upon herself. Mr. Coolie had observed 
that Celia was nervous, depressed. 

“I have talked it over frankly with a friend,” said 
Celia to Jerry, “and as a result I have come over to¬ 
night to end it all.” 

“Yes,” said Jerry. 

“Mr. Coolie had seen that I was not myself, that I 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


215 


had something on my mind. He said I seemed de¬ 
pressed. I felt at last that I could unburden myself 
to him, that he alone would be in a position to advise 
me disinterestedly and with spiritual clarity. I told 
him everything—all my doubts as to my duty—my duty 
to mama, father, and you, and he has cleared away all 
fogs. I now see clearly. He has made me realize the 
crime of giving oneself where one cannot give one’s 
soul. No duty, he tells me, is above that of being true 
to oneself, and that I could never be if I entered into ai 
loveless marriage with you. Mr. Coolie called it the 
‘unholy state of matrimony.’ 

“He saw so clearly—realized all I had suffered and 
showed me the path to follow fearlessly. He has even 
offered to try to make father see things in a sensible 
light.” 

Here Jerry interrupted. “I wouldn’t let him do that, 
if I were you. I’d better explain the matter myself to 
Sir Wilfred. On that point I must insist. Rest assured 
no blame will be attached to you.” 

“If you insist . . .” agreed Celia. “And you’re sure 
you understand, Monty?” 

“Better than you do yourself,” said Jerry. 

Celia looked worried. She fidgeted her hands. “I’m 
so afraid of father—afraid of his anger. He will be 
furious, you know—furious! Don’t you think, after 
all, we’d better not tell him immediately? When he 
comes down for the Christmas holidays will be time 
enough—don’t you think? And Miss Felicity—need 
she be told yet for a time?” 

“Certainly not, if you prefer. Then am I to under¬ 
stand that outwardly we are still engaged—that with 
the exception of us two and Mr. Coolie every one else 
is to suppose the relation still exists?” 

“That’s just what I wanted to propose,” said Celia; 


2l6 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


“though if you want to make a confidante of Polly, I’ve 
no objection. You see, I’ve made one of Mr. Coolie.” 

“Thanks.” 

“And now”—Celia was fumbling with her finger—“I 
can’t keep this—I can’t wear it—you must take it back. 
I’ve loathed it since the first moment I saw it. It has 
burned my finger every second like the white-hot link 
of a chain.” She held out the circlet of diamonds. 

Jerry accepted the ring unemotionally and held it 
abstractedly in the tips of his fingers. 

“I hope I haven’t hurt you, Monty.” 

“Don’t worry about me,” begged Jerry. 

Celia got up. “I suppose for effect I’d better take 
the book.” 

Jerry went to the shelves and got it. 

“Now don’t offer to see me home. We came over 
in Charon, and we’re going back by the high road. So 
I’ll say good-night now. I suppose you’d naturally 
rather be alone for a time. I’m awfully sorry, Monty, 
but you’ll buck up, won’t you?” 

“Yes, oh yes!” said Jerry as he shook hands and 
held the door open. 

He returned to his chair and sank into it with a sigh 
of unutterable relief. 

“Thanks be to all the unknown gods that I’m not 
condemned by a devilish fate to a life sentence of 
marriage to that woman!” thought he. “And blessings 
be on the head of the sly Coolie. May Heaven reward 
him—with Celia herself.” 

He sat long, his eyes fixed with a hypnotic stare upon 
the sparkling stones, as he abstractedly turned them 
this way and that. 

He was not aware that the door had softly opened. 
He did not hear the light footsteps behind him, yet he 
suddenly felt eyes were upon him. He turned and was 
confronted by Polly. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


217 


She had seen the ring. There was now no use to 
hide it. He held it up in wordless explanation of 
the meaning of Celia’s interview with him. 

Polly sat down in a chair near him, her eyes fixed 
on the glittering stones. 

After a long, thought-laden silence Jerry asked: 

“What does a fellow do with a returned engagement 
ring?” 

“I don’t know,” said Polly. “Poor, beautiful, de¬ 
spised thing!” 

“One can’t return it to the jeweller, I suppose. It 
would be second-hand. I can’t pawn it. I don’t want 
to throw it in the fire—besides, Aunt Felicity’s money 
paid for it.” 

Polly leaned over, her hand dangling over her knee. 
Her eyes burned upon the rejected ring. 

“There should be homes for abandoned engagement 
rings,” said she softly. 

“Would you give the poor outcast a home, Polly?” 
asked Jerry in a voice scarcely audible. 

Polly only breathed “Yes.” 

Jerry lifted the dangling right hand and with very 
unbrotherly thoughts and tremulous touch slipped the 
ring over the slim fourth finger. They both steadfastly 
kept their eyes fixed on the ring. Polly’s hand rested 
in Jerry’s. Slowly he lifted it to his lips and kissed the 
ring and the finger it encircled. 

He retained the hand in his own. “It must be our 
secret, Polly—Celia doesn’t want her father and Aunt 
Felicity to know as yet that the thing is off.” 

“Then I can wear it only at night—in bed,” said 
Polly, with a look of disappointment. 

“Yes, but I can put it on each night, can’t I? I’ll 
rap twice on your door and say ‘Dixie’ for the pass¬ 
word, and you’ll come out and I’ll slip it on with a 
wish, and you’ll sleep with it. . . .” 


2 l8 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Polly was still sufficiently childlike to love anything 
that seemed like a game. 

“Oh, that will be fun! Now I must go to bed.” She 
tried to draw her hand away. 

Jerry was raising it slowly toward his neck. “Why 
don’t you ever put your arms round my neck any more, 
Polly?” 

Polly was keeping her arm rigid. It did not rise 
higher than his breast. She made no answer. 

“Mayn’t I kiss you good-night?” 

The door opened and Aunt Felicity entered. They 
sprang apart like surprised lovers. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


The three weeks which followed were outwardly un¬ 
eventful, the inmates of Tolvean having only the outer 
aspect of leading the placid, happy life of a normal 
English country family. 

Inwardly, for two of the dwellers in that majestic, 
ivy-covered, old grey stone house, the days were any¬ 
thing but placid and commonplace. 

To Polly each day was one of nervous tension. She 
was awaiting confirmation of her intuitions. She 
counted the days off on a calendar. Pretending that 
she had some shopping to do in Penzance, she had gone 
over there on Monday, the ioth November, and posted 
the letter to Johannesburg. It would be past the New 
Year before she could get a reply. How could she ever, 
ever endure the suspense of the weeks which must in¬ 
tervene? Yet had she any uncertainty deep in her 
heart? Yes, at times her mind still fluctuated between 
conviction and doubt. It was so difficult to be sure. 
. . . Perhaps she was influenced only by her desires 
now—her ardent hope that Monty was really in South 
Africa. Why should she so suddenly desire to prove 
the supposed Monty to be an unknown outsider? 
Polly’s virginity of soul protected her from a realiza¬ 
tion of her own heart’s secret. 

The presence of even a fraction of doubt, uncer¬ 
tainty, naturally held her emotions in check, and gave 
all her relations with Jerry an anomalous character, 
both difficult and painful. 

219 


220 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


What she felt toward Jerry, her realization of the 
strange emotions he stirred within her, his power over 
her happiness, her peace of mind, must—should no 
letter arrive from South Africa—be accounted for by 
supposing her affection for her brother to have been 
curiously intensified by that long six years’ separation, 
for she recognized that her love for this “Monty” 
transcended in quality and quantity all affection she 
had hitherto experienced for any one. One did some¬ 
times hear of extraordinary devotion between sister and 
brother; one read in books of the most beautiful sacri¬ 
fices resulting from such love. 

On the other hand, if she did get a reply from Johan¬ 
nesburg and this “Monty” turned out to be a total 
stranger, what then? Here Polly’s thoughts always 
stopped short, as if brought up by a peremptory halt, 
sounding from the very depths of her being. 

There was now another curious fact to face. There 
was just one minute in every day which really counted, 
for which all the hours of the day seemed merely the 
overture—the moment when each night “Monty” 
paused outside her door and tapped twice. Polly would 
then hand forth the “fairy ring,” as she called it, and 
Jerry would silently slip it over the fourth finger of her 
right hand, then rest his lips upon it, as with closed 
eyes (visioning a wistful dream) he wished the beauti¬ 
ful wish. 

One night Polly had laughingly said: “If all your 
wishes for me are magicked true by the fairy ring I 
would think I’d be smothered under a shower of bless¬ 
ings and treasures.” 

“But perhaps I always wish the same wish,” con¬ 
fessed Jerry. 

“Do you?” 

“I said perhaps.” Jerry gave that queer engaging 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


221 


smile, which always made Polly feel as if her heart were 
a motor being run full speed uphill. 

To Jerry, too, the whole day crescendoed to that 
moment of bedtime, when on the threshold of Polly’s 
room he seemed on the threshold of heaven itself. 

With Celia weeded out of their paradise, Polly and 
Jerry lived in a sublime isolation, in which they were 
but dimly aware of the presence of even the beloved 
Aunt Felicity. She now held in their fairy palace of 
love the position which some exquisite, treasured old 
piece of furniture might have held. If that piece of 
furniture had been removed, they would have realized 
it instantly and would have suffered a grief-stricken 
sense of loss. 

Their self-absorption was only the divine but selfish 
concentration of love, a concentration which blots out 
everything except the personality of the beloved. 

Miss Felicity was not selfish, which was remarkable 
in one devoid of imagination, devoid of the power to put 
oneself in the place of another. And she had lived too 
much alone with her many responsibilities and absorb¬ 
ing domestic interests to be ever consciously lonely. 

When it occurred to her one day that Polly and 
Monty so rarely shared their plans and time with her, 
she only sighed happily and thought, “Dear children! 
They are so devoted to one another.” 

She had ceased to worry actively over the delayed 
restoration of her nephew’s memory. The dear boy 
was so adorable, so dependable, so improved in every 
way. She could scarcely in reason desire a complete 
restoration of his former self. She knew that Dr. 
Baragwaneth was still seeing him from time to time, 
and was now treating him for general anaemia. 

Miss Felicity could not attempt to understand the 
complicated workings of the human body. The pro¬ 
cedures of the medical profession were to her a pro- 


222 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


found and awe-inspiring mystery, but she tried to 
elucidate Dr. Baragwaneth to Polly. 

“He seems to think,” said she, “that Monty’s lost 
memory may be due to an insufficient supply of some¬ 
thing to some part of the brain—this lack being due to 
what he calls anaemia. Once overcome the condition, 
build up the body, enrich the blood, and, lo and 
behold! the brain, properly fed, may regain all its lost 
power.” 

Polly listened and tried to understand. Suppose, 
thought she, he regains his memory and finds he is 
married. She grew so suddenly pale, in contemplating 
this horrible possibility, that Aunt Felicity asked 
anxiously if she felt faint. “You must have a sip of 
sherry at once.” 

“Oh, aunty,” laughed Polly, “don’t you know ‘feeling 
faint’ went out of fashion aeons ago? Nobody faints 
nowadays except on the stage, in the cinema, and in 
novels.” 

Yet it was just a week from that day, on Tuesday, 
the 2nd of December, that Polly did feel faint—as 
faint as any early Victorian lady. At breakfast, Jerry 
had proposed to Polly that they should have a good 
long walk instead of the usual morning ride. 

It was what Polly called a “shade-shine day”— 
a day of constant surprises of light and shadow, 
of occasional, tempestuous, shortlived showers and 
glorious after outbursts of sun. The great bowl of sky 
seemed a huge canvas on which some masterly painter 
had achieved the most dramatic effects. Great 
purplish-grey clouds reared architectural battlements, 
tipped with lights and tints which one is accustomed to 
associate only with sunset glories, while between the 
huge, dark rolling masses one seemed to see infinitely 
far behind into a space of celestially clear robin’s 
egg blue. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


223 

“It’s a day to run, not walk,” said Jerry, as he 
looked out from the dining-room window. 

“To dance, you mean,” said Polly, as she did a 
saturnalia round the table and out into the hall. 

Jerry was just reaching for his cap, which he had 
yesterday flung down on the hall table, when Polly 
put out a hand. 

“Don’t,” she begged. “To cover one’s head on a 
day like this would be sacrilege. The wind in one’s 
hair—oh! it will be maddeningly wonderful.” 

Jerry smiled, and putting up his hand rumpled his 
locks as if getting them loosened for the wind’s sport. 

He was standing immediately beneath the portrait 
of the boy in the Eton suit, with the engaging smile. 

“Curious,” said Polly, looking from one face to the 
other, “how singularly like that portrait you look 
just at this minute.” 

Jerry turned and looked up. “Fine little chap, 
isn’t he? Who is he?” 

“Uncle Cecil,” said Polly. 

“Where’s he now?” 

“Dead. Drowned in Australia. It was probably 
suicide, poor dear. Don’t talk of him to Aunt 
Felicity,” she hastily warned. “It’s her one obsession. 
She was peculiarly devoted to him. She’s always 
dreaming about him—has sort of nightmare dreams— 
says he’s always trying to tell her something, and she 
always wakes up before he can say it. But come along. 
We’re wasting precious time. I’ll run you a race to 
the lodge.” 

They sped like two young fawns down the gravelled 
drive. Jerry had to exert all his powers to beat her, 
and then he reached the great gate of Tolvean only 
about five feet ahead. They stood laughing and 
panting. 

“Where now?” asked Jerry. 


224 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


“Don’t let’s plan,” said Polly. “Perfunctory plans 
would be so out of place in this world of glorious 
abandon. I’ll shut my eyes, whirl about like a 
Dervish, then whichever way I’m looking when I stop 
will be the direction we’ll follow.” 

She whirled and came to a stop facing the wood 
opposite the gate. 

They climbed the stone hedge, passed through a 
copse, and came out on a hilltop, from which they 
could see, as Polly said, “across England.” There 
was St. Michael’s Mount, a grey spectre in the far 
distance on one side, a ghost sea behind it, and there 
far on the other hand was another wraith-like sea, 
probably somewhere near the Lizard. 

Below them stretched a great checker-board of 
small fields, separated by hedges. It had a singularly 
beautiful decorative quality. 

“Nowhere can one see so far as in England,” said 
Polly. “And it’s so lovely, so dear, so somehow 
confiding.” 

Jerry was thinking, no matter what his fate, no 
matter how far the future might carry him, his heart 
would now be like the soil that enshrined the heart of 
Rupert Brooke, “for ever England.” 

It was a day which sounded a clarion call to all 
Nature’s creatures. The birds felt it. There was a 
thrush down in the copse, singing as though practising 
the love-song he would sing in the early Cornish spring¬ 
time, when the moors would be gold with furze, the 
hedges carpeted with primroses, the woods magical 
with bluebells—those wedding-bells of the birds. 

Rabbits were to be seen on all sides, some sitting 
on their haunches, others scuttling toward a nearby 
patch of broccoli. The gulls, having deserted the sea 
for the time, played overhead, coasting down wind 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


225 

currents, tirelessly sporting with the care-free joy of 
children. 

In a distant lane, far from home, they came across 
Celia’s terrier, Dorothy Perkins, out for a hunt of 
her own. She, too, had answered the call of the day. 
She was overjoyed to abandon any private plans 
and become a party of three. She prettily pretended 
she had come out for the sole purpose of finding Jerry 
and Polly. For fear she had not made her delight 
over the encounter sufficiently convincing, she fre¬ 
quently deserted some fascinating scent to wheel about, 
leaping, and pawing them all over again. On return¬ 
ing again to pursue her trail, her enthusiasm of tail 
completed all her eyes and paws had left unsaid. 

“She’s a dear dog,” said Polly. 

“There might have been a different ending to my 
love-story had Celia been Dorothy and Dorothy Celia,” 
laughed Jerry. 

“I’m glad she wasn’t,” said Polly. “Celia would 
have made such an awfully supercilious dog. I’m sure 
she would have been a pug. Shall we get over the 
wall and investigate this wood? I’ve never been 
here before. We’ll let Dorothy be our guide.” 

They were fringing a wood, the edges of which were 
a mass of aged rhododendrons of amazing height. 
Beyond rhododendrons they saw the tall tops of bare 
beeches. 

Jerry climbed the crumbling stone wall and pulled 
Polly up. No bodily contact with her, however brief, 
failed to bring thrills of an ecstatic but troublesome 
quality. He had to help her down on the other side. 

They instinctively avoided a perilous encounter of 
eyes. 

They stood on chaotic ground. There were deep 
hollows filled with dead leaves and abrupt banks 
carpeted with matted dead branches. The myriad 


226 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


under-branches of the largest rhododendrons were 
dead from lack of sunshine. A twilight lay ever about 
their roots. 

“It’s like a haunted wood,” said Polly. 

“What a place for a criminal to hide—in that 
rhododendron thicket. Step carefully, Polly. I don’t 
like the look of this ground. You’d think there’d 
been an earthquake here or some other upheaval.” 

“Say rather a caving in,” said Polly, as her foot 
sank in the leaves of a hollow and she leapt to the 
bank beyond. “I believe we’re among old tin 
mines—probably old Roman ones. Yes, look! there’s 
an abandoned shaft.” She pointed to a wide, irregu¬ 
larly round hole to their left. 

Polly edged toward it to peer down. 

Jerry grabbed her nervously by the arm. “Don’t. 
Please don’t—the ground looks treacherous—it might 
cave in. This is awfully risky business. I think we’d 
better clear out of here. You can’t see what you’re 
stepping on for this bracken, and the leafy rhodo¬ 
dendron branches hang over so far, there’s no telling 
what they’re hiding. Come on, Polly, let’s get out.” 

Polly assented. But where had the dog gone? 

Jerry whistled. No Dorothy Perkins appeared. 
Jerry and Polly called and whistled repeatedly. They 
caught a distant sound of rustling, and the next moment 
a rabbit dashed past them. Quickly behind came the 
terrier, nose to earth. 

Polly tried to catch Dorothy as she passed, but she 
slipped through her hands and was off like a streak of 
lightning. 

Having gone round the far side of a large isolated 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


227 


rhododendron the rabbit turned on its tracks and 
headed in their direction. It dashed toward a de¬ 
pression in the ground and disappeared from view 
under some bracken. Dorothy Perkins was now in 
full cry over the lost trail. They caught glimpses of 
her, turning excitedly this way and that, her nose 
sniffing the ground. A sudden joyous yelp announced 
she had rediscovered the scent. 

She came flying along the course taken by the rabbit 
before it had disappeared, and reached the red-brown 
bracken under which the rabbit had apparently hidden. 
The dog’s speed had not slackened, yet she passed 
under the bracken and did not reappear. 

Jerry and Polly were unconsciously holding on to 
each other in their excitement over the chase. They 
now turned puzzled, questioning eyes one to the other. 

“Where could she have gone?” 

Jerry did not reply, but his eyes held an unspoken 
fear. 

“Stand just where you are for a moment,” said he. 
“Don’t move.” 

Polly obeyed. Her heart began to sink with horrid 
misgivings. 

Jerry walked carefully, pushing his stick into each 
clump of bracken and under the overhanging rhodo¬ 
dendron branches. He reached the spot where the 
double disappearance had occurred. He pushed the 
bracken aside and bent over, looking down for what 
seemed to Polly an interminable time. 

Jerry came back toward her, his eyes fully of misery. 

Polly understood before he spoke. 

She whispered: “An old mine shaft?” 


228 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Jerry nodded in affirmation. 

“Oh, what shall we do?” moaned Polly. 

“That’s what I’m trying to decide,” said Jerry. 
“For I’m going to try to do something—save her, if 
there’s a ghost of a chance.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Hand in hand they approached the hidden death¬ 
trap. 

As they passed near the brink of the shaft, to their 
ears came a faint sound of splashing water. 

“Oh! it’s Dorothy,” cried Polly. “She’s alive— 
still alive and swimming. What shall we do?” 

Jerry was thinking hard. He knew that these long- 
abandoned shafts were generally filled with water 
of considerable depth. He had visions of the poor 
dog swimming and swimming round in a hopeless 
horrible circle until exhausted. He drew Polly care¬ 
fully by the bracken and the branch of rhododendron 
which had hidden the shaft opening, to the other side. 
From there they had a good view of a circular hole of 
more than five feet span. The stones lining the shaft 
seemed quite intact near the top. Pushing Polly 
behind him, Jerry lay flat on his stomach and got his 
head over the edge. 

At first he could distinguish nothing in the black 
void below; then as his eyes grew accustomed to the 
darkness and the wind blew the rhododendron branch 
to one side, he saw a glint of light on water below, far 
below. He could not calculate the distance. 

The sound of swimming had so much the quality of 
splashing that Jerry knew the dog to be terrified or 
desperate. 

He called down in a reassuring voice, “It’s all 
right, old girl. Take it easy.” 

The sound in the water below ceased abruptly. 

229 


230 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


Polly shivered. Jerry felt a cold perspiration break 
out on his forehead. 

“Dorothy!” he called. “Good old dog.” 

There was a pathetic response—half-whine and half- 
ecstatic bark. 

“She’s alive! Oh, Monty, she’s alive!” cried Polly, 
as she flattened herself beside Jerry, calling down 
every term of endearment and encouragement she 
could think of. 

Dorothy again sent up to them that wistful, whining 
cry. 

“What can have happened?” asked Polly. 

“Wait—I think I got a glimpse of something,” said 
Jerry. “I think I see the glistening of light on a sort of 
spray. She must be standing on something and shak¬ 
ing herself. By George! I believe she has found a 
projection of some kind and has climbed up on it. If 
that’s true, then ...” 

“Oh! could we save her?” Polly gripped his arm. 

“Of course we will,” Jerry assured her. “First we 
must wait a minute or two and just listen. If she 
doesn’t swim again and still replies to us . . .” 

“Then what?” 

“Then I’ll get her out.” 

“How?” 

“I don’t know yet. I’m thinking.” 

They listened breathlessly, then called. A plaintive 
response came. There was no further sound of splash¬ 
ing water. 

“Polly,” said Jerry finally, “I must go and get help. 
I’ll need a rope and some men. Will you go with 
me?” 

“And leave her—leave Dorothy here all alone? 
Monty, I couldn’t.” 

“All right. I understand. You can keep her 
spirit up and cheer her if any one can. I’ll not be 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


231 


gone long, but, dearest”—the word slipped over the 
brink of lip straight from his heart before he could 
curb it—“promise you’ll be careful—that you’ll not 
lean over, an inch farther.” 

“You may trust me.” Polly avoided his eyes. 

Jerry got up and stood looking down on the pros- 
trate form a moment with anxious, love-laden eyes, 
then turned his back and made his way quickly over 
the uneven ground through the wood. 

It abruptly occurred to him that he didn’t know 
the way back to Tolvean. They had come by devious 
unfamiliar lanes, across strange fields, guided by the 
whims of Dorothy Perkins. Jerry could only dash 
back down the last lane they had traversed, in the 
hope of meeting some one. 

He presently saw a farmer in a field close by. Leap¬ 
ing the hedge, he hurried to him and briefly recounted 
the accident. The farmer’s interest was unstirred. 

“Dogs often falls into them old shafts,” he com¬ 
mented fatalistically. “Two of the beagles went 
down in last week’s chase. Ain’t no use tryin’ to do 
nawthen.” 

Jerry elaborated his determination to try to save 
Dorothy, and appealed to the farmer for advice and 
assistance. 

“I’m too busy,” he replied, and spat. “Better go 
down to the village and find a fisherman. What you 
need is some rope and a winch. But you’ll have to 
pay a man a tidy sum to go down one of them holes. 
It’s a tricky business.” 

“Where could I get a winch?” asked Jerry, feeling 
that every moment wasted was perhaps sealing 
Dorothy’s doom. 

“A ship belongs to have a winch. There be a 
sailing barque into the harbour—the Annie Walters . 
You might hire the winch offen ’er.” 


232 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


The farmer gave directions as to what fields 
to cross, what lanes to follow, then phlegmatically 
turned and took up his own interrupted thoughts and 
toil. 

A half-hour later Jerry found the captain of the 
sailing-ship. Fortunately the skipper was a dog lover. 
He listened sympathetically. The enterprise appealed 
to him. He pointed out, however, the troublesome¬ 
ness of unbolting the winch, and tried to think of some 
simpler method of rescue. “A gin, snatch-block, and 
rope would, I think, do the trick just as well. I’ll 
lend you two of my men to help.” 

Jerry mentioned a handsome sum in payment, and 
the bargain was clinched. To hurry matters he went 
off in search of a cart and pony. Another twenty 
minutes were consumed before he and the two sailors 
were travelling up over the hills. 

The trip seemed endless, the pony a tortoise. Jerry 
became a prey to a thousand sickening forebodings. 
What an ass he’d been to leave Polly there alone in 
that damnable place. Suppose she had edged over 
too far. . . . Suppose the supports of some old mine 
passage far below had given way. ... He was in a 
fever of misery and anticipation of calamity. He had 
almost forgotten Dorothy in his agony of fear for 
Polly’s safety. 

The cart had to be brought to a halt in the lane 
skirting the wood. While the men were hitching 
the pony, Jerry clambered over the wall and dashed 
without any precaution toward the spot where they 
had stood when they saw the rabbit disappear. 

“Polly!” he called, unable to wait until he would 
reach a place from where she might be visible. 

“All right!” The sound of her voice brought 
such a sense of relief, Jerry felt his legs go weak and 
he sat down suddenly. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


*33 

In another half minute he was beside her, his recent 
agony of apprehension still writ in his eyes and pallor 
of cheek. “Thank God you’re safe!” he breathed. 

“Everything’s all right,” said Polly, avoiding his 
eyes. “Dorothy barks now—doesn’t wail any more. 
We’ve both been as cheerful as could be. Did you 
succeed in getting help?” 

“Yes; and I must go back now to give a hand with 
the tackle. I had to find out first if you were safe. 
I’ll be back in a jiffy. Oh! Polly, if you only knew-” 

“Run along,” she interposed. “Dorothy must be so 
tired, poor dear. It’s been a long time.” 

It was a matter of only a few minutes before Jerry 
reappeared with the laden sailors. 

The men went to work in a business-like way, 
making a gin of three spars over the opening of the 
shaft. From the centre of the tripod they swung the 
pulley over which the rope was passed. 

When everything was ready one of the sailors turned 
to Jerry. “Well, boss, which of us do you want to 
go down ’er?” 

“Neither,” said Jerry; “I’m going down myself, of 
course.” 

Polly felt a queer quick throb of her heart, and there 
was a sudden catch in her throat, but she made no 
protest. 

The sailor dislodged a quid of tobacco violently and 
said: ‘^Excuse me, sir, but I was for taking you for a 
bloomin’ toff. I beg yer pardon.” 

Jerry ignored the eulogy, flung off his coat, and asked 
them to arrange the rope. 

They passed it round his body under the arms and 
made a bowline. 

Jerry was ready for the descent. He was deter¬ 
mined not to look at Polly. She, however, sped to 


234 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


his side and seized his arm. He looked down for one 
brief moment in her eyes, and in that moment looked 
all the things he had so long hidden in his heart. And 
he saw—great heavens! what did he see? His 
senses reeled with the shock and bliss of the revelation. 
In Polly’s eyes was that mystical something which is 
to be seen only in the eyes of a woman who loves. 

“Polly!” he gasped huskily. 

She bent her head and kissed the sleeve of his shirt. 

Then Jerry knew—knew the sublime truth. 

She turned away. She hadn’t the courage to see 
him disappear down that horrible shaft. 

All her thoughts condensed into an agonizing 
prayer for his safety. She had forgotten the dog. 

Jerry began his descent. 

The men stood at some distance, paying out the rope. 

Jerry wished he had an electric torch. It was 
going to be dark down there. With his hands he tried 
to keep himself free of the sides. When he was down 
about twenty feet his foot struck a displaced stone 
projecting on the right side. He called up: “Could 
you keep me more toward the middle?” 

The men made an effort. They swung him too far. 
The next moment Jerry saw stars. He had thought 
that expression a mere joke, up to then, but stars 
there were and a staggering pain. His head had 
collided with the sharp edge of the projecting stone. 
He put a hand up and found his hair wet, warmly 
wet. He felt horribly dizzy. He had a moment’s 
impulse to cry up to them to haul him up, “but,” 
thought he, “that would look as if I’m a quitter.” 

Down, down, down he went. His dizziness was 
increasing. The blood was now flowing over his face. 
He felt rather faint. Suppose he should start back 
up with Dorothy in his arms and get faint and help- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


235 

less. . . . If the ledge was wide enough to stand on, 
he’d rope her up and send her up first. 

He called out, “Dorothy.” A glad cry sounded near, 
below him. He dashed the blood from his eyes and 
tried to bend over to look. He was seized with such 
giddiness he would have fallen but for the rope’s firm 
bold. 

Summoning all his strength, he called up: “Go slow.” 

A few seconds more and Jerry, whose eyes had grown 
accustomed to the dark, saw a few feet below him 
the quivering-with-joy form of the terrier. 

In order to reach her he’d have to let his feet and 
legs go down into the water. He shivered at the 
thought. The water was deathly cold. As it soaked 
through his trousers, it gave him a shock, then seemed 
suddenly to revive him. He felt mentally steadied. 

“All right. That’ll do.” 

“Stay still. Down!” he commanded the now wildly 
excited Dorothy, who was about to leap into space 
to reach him. 

It would be necessary to get a pretty firm grip on 
her, for she was almost out of her mind with relief 
and delight. 

“There, there, old girl! Steady, now.” He reached 
forward and snatched her by the scruff of the neck, 
lifting her, as with the other hand he clutched the 
ledge, and bending down got a foothold. As he 
glanced at the water, less than a foot below the ledge, 
he involuntarily shuddered. Giddiness overcame him 
again, and he had to use his free hand to steady himself 
by the rope. He wiped his eyes clear of blood and 
put Dorothy down on the narrow space left by his 
feet, holding her there as he severely commanded: 
“Dead dog! Lie quiet, I tell you!” She lay motion¬ 
less and cowed. 

He let go of her; both hands were required to get 


236 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

the rope from around his own body and unfasten the 
bowline. 

He tremblingly bent over, fully realizing his peril, 
and slipped the rope around the dog’s body back of her 
forelegs. “It will pinch a little, Dorothy, but it 
means life and all that’s good to a dog, so bear it like 
a woman.” She was secured. He straightened up, 
feeling horribly weak and shaky. With great effort 
he steadied his voice and cried up: 

“Heave away!” 

Dorothy Perkins swung out and up over the water. 
During the first surprise she made no sound, then 
she began an uninterrupted series of sharp, protesting 
yelps. 

When the terrier’s head emerged from the top of 
the shaft, Polly gave a little cry. She had thought 
Jerry would bring her up in his arms. He hadn’t 
said so, of course. . . . But he was down there still 
—down there unprotected by any hold of rope, on that 
narrow ledge. If he should make a wrong move. . . . : 
If he should happen to slip. . . . 

She couldn’t wait for the men to lower the rope. 
Deaf to all the whimpers of delight of the dog and 
oblivious of its efforts to lick her hands, she pulled 
madly at the fastenings and got them loose. Pushing 
the eager nose of Dorothy aside, she turned, wild¬ 
eyed, to the sailors. 

“Get it down again—get it down quickly.” 

Then she leaned over as far as she dared, and with 
a world of yearning cried: “Monty-darling!” 

“I’m all right,” answered Jerry. “Don’t get too 
near,” he implored anxiously, as he again dashed the 
blood from his eyes and looked up at the small disk of 
sky overhead. He saw a star shining far above, and 
more than that, he saw liberation! 

In a flash it came to him as clearly as if a voice had 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 237 

spoken: the blow on the head had been delivered 
by Fate! 

Here at last was the chance he had prayed for. 
Through this blow he could regain his lost personality 
—his own individuality and—perhaps eventually win 
Polly. . . . 


CHAPTER XXX 


Polly’s eyes detected a splotch of blood on Dorothy 
Perkins’s side. 

Poor dog! She was probably hurt. But Dorothy’s 
wounds could wait. The only thing in the world that 
mattered now was the safety of Monty. It had been 
a quixotic thing for him to do—to go down himself. 
One of the sailors could have done it just as well, 
probably better. In the mercilessness of her anxiety, 
she felt any accident befalling a mere sailor would have 
been immaterial. 

Jerry had lost more blood than he realized. It was 
a nasty scalp wound which reached perilously near the 
danger spot of the temple. 

Once he had reeled and almost fallen into the 
abysmal depths of water. After that experience he 
had carefully seated himself, letting his already soaking 
feet and legs dangle in the water till the rope came 
down. He managed to get it about his body in a 
very amateurish way. 

It was when about half-way between the ledge and 
the top that Jerry fainted, and it was when Jerry 
appeared above the opening of the shaft that Polly, 
for the first time in her life, came very near fainting too. 

Jerry was indeed a shocking spectacle. His face, 
with its closed, death-like eyes, was a gory blur, his 
shirt bespattered with crimson and his hands dyed red. 

Polly gave a glance, uttered an animal-like wail, and 
put both hands over her eyes. She fought with all her 
strength to overcome her faintness and sickness. She 
238 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


239 


must be strong. She must be able to help. With a 
shuddering of body she withdrew her hands from her 
eyes and forced herself to look at Jerry. All sense of 
horror departed. It was as if an asbestos curtain had 
descended between her and her emotions. She walked 
forward steadily, deaf to the voluble ejaculations of 
the sailors. 

She bent over the form of Jerry, now stretched full 
length on a bed of bracken. She tenderly wiped the 
disfiguring blood from his face as well as she could. To 
think of all that water down there in the shaft. ... If 
one only had a little of it now. She loosened Jerry’s 
collar and raised his feet. She felt for his heart-beats. 
They seemed so faint, so far off. . . . 

O God! if she should lose him now—now that fehe 
knew that what she felt for him was love—now that 
she knew she had a right to love him—now that she 
knew the blessed truth of his love for her. 

She bent over him, her tears raining on his poor 
stained face, and as they fell she wiped away the 
mingled tears and blood gently with her handkerchief. 
Forgetting witnesses, she suddenly stooped and covered 
the unconscious face with kisses. 

“Good job we’ve got the cart, miss,” said one of the 
sailors. Said the other: “Better let us heave ’im up, 
lady. Wot ’e needs is a doctor.” 

Polly was brought to her senses. 

In ten minutes they had got Jerry in the bottom of 
the cart, his head pillowed on Polly’s lap. Dorothy 
Perkins sat in front with the sailors looking as smug 
and proud as if she realized herself the instrument of 
Fate. 

They hadn’t gone far when Jerry regained conscious¬ 
ness. He opened his eyes and found Polly looking 
down on him with an infinite tenderness and anxiety. 
He felt the jolting of the cart and surmised what had 


240 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


happened. He smiled reassuringly, contentedly, and 
closed his eyes. As he did not reopen them, Polly 
leaned over and whispered: “Are you all right, dear?” 

He opened his eyes and smiled again. “Yes, 
perfectly happy.” 

He was tempted to try and plan what he should do, 
but it seemed such an awful effort. His head and the 
back of his neck ached so ridiculously. His teeth were 
chattering with cold. He felt absurdly weak and silly. 
Perhaps he had better postpone any attempt at serious 
thought until a later hour. The best thing at present 
was just to relinquish himself in the hands of others, to 
speak as little as possible, and enjoy to the fullest the 
inaction of brain and body which seemed so curiously 
comfortable. What did a little pain matter, if it 
brought him the incalculable blessing of having his 
head pillowed on Polly’s lap? 

Polly dreaded the arrival at Tolvean. She knew 
what a shock the sight of “Monty” would give Aunt 
Felicity. She must break the facts of the accident to 
her as gently as would be possible. She decided the 
best course was to drive to the rear of the house. 
Paynter could be counted on. She could keep Aunt 
Felicity out of the way until Wiggs and the sailors had 
got “Monty” upstairs. 

The servants were, of course, aghast when the cart 
drew up at the tradesmen’s entrance. They all but 
went off their heads. 

Polly, with all her sweetness and gentleness, was 
possessed of a commanding quality and soon put an 
end to the excited outcries. 

Wiggs, having been summoned, arrived, and, with 
the exception of a sudden pallor, evinced no perturba¬ 
tion. “Thank Heaven for one person with self-con¬ 
trol ! ” thought Polly. 

Dorothy Perkins, with not even a glance of apprecia- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


241 


tion, leapt from the cart and, as if feeling that the role 
appointed for her to play in this drama was now com¬ 
plete, turned tail and made for home. 

While Miss Felicity was safely detained by Paynter 
in the drawing-room behind closed doors, the men 
carried Jerry upstairs—carried him in spite of his 
protests. He assured them he was quite able to walk. 

Polly first telephoned Dr. Baragwaneth, then went to 
tell her aunt. 

Aunt Felicity, in her turn, now grew so faint, Polly 
had to administer a little sherry. But for all the 
fluttering exterior, there was a warrior soul in that 
little Victorian body. Miss Felicity drew herself up to 
her full meagre height and declared she would go at 
once to her dear boy. 

Polly, however, prevailed upon her to delay seeing 
him for a little. “He’s such a sight, dearest. I’m 
sure it would make you quite ill, and, besides, Wiggs 
is probably undressing and bathing him now.” 

Miss Felicity agreed to wait until the doctor arrived. 
As it was, she did not see Jerry till the following day. 

When Dr. Baragwaneth entered he found the patient 
in bed with his head bandaged in a remarkable fashion 
by Wiggs, who had felt not a little proud of his first-aid 
attentions. 

“Doctor,” said Jerry, “you once asked me if I 
remembered who Jerry Middleton was. I can answer 
that question now.” 

“Indeed,” said the doctor. “But I wouldn’t bother 
about such things at present. Let’s have a look at 
the head first. Time enough for other matters later.” 

“But I want to talk,” protested Jerry. 

“And I want you to be quiet.” 

“If I’m not, what then?” 

“But you will be,” replied the doctor. “My 
patients obey me.” 


242 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

“You’re not going to stick that dam’ needle in 
me again,” shouted Jerry. “If you don’t give me your 
word of honour not to drug me, I’ll get out of the bed 
this minute, and out of the house.” 

“I’ve no intention of giving you a sedative.” The 
doctor was very patient. “I do, however, insist upon 
your calming yourself. Now let me get that rag off 
your head.” 

“But, remember,” insisted Jerry, “I must keep all 
my wits about me, for I’ve got a lot to say. I want 
to say it to you, but especially to Au—Miss Felicity 
and Polly.” 

“Very well,” said the doctor, “but you’ll say it 
to-morrow. Now get it through your head, young 
man, that I’m in charge of this case.” 

Jerry resigned himself to the inevitable, and the 
doctor proceeded to examine the wound. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Jerry did not sleep the early part of the night. His 
head was racked by an excruciating pain. He felt 
feverish, yet shivered with cold. Towards morning, 
however, he slept the deep sleep of exhaustion, and 
awoke miraculously free from pain and singularly 
clear-minded. 

He had suffered too much during the night to at¬ 
tempt serious thought or to plan out any definite line 
of action. 

His first sensation on awakening was a great grati¬ 
tude to the doctor. He was overwhelmingly thankful 
that he had not been permitted to talk the day before. 
He would have made irretrievable blunders—blurted 
out the first impulsive words which might have come 
to the tip of his tongue. He now realized that the 
climax he was approaching required the most delicate 
handling, the most profound deliberation, finesse. 

In the quietude and peace of the early morning, with 
a clear head free from distracting pain, he reviewed 
the situation and debated the alternatives—to tell 
the whole bald truth, or tell some truth and some lies. 

He experienced an almost irresistible temptation to 
tell the whole truth. It seemed a procedure fascinat¬ 
ingly simple. The long deception he had been forced 
to endure made him passionately long to be for ever 
released from the shackles forged by lies. 

He deliberately put the temptation from him, well 
knowing the cruel difficulties, the perhaps lifelong 
243 


244 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


penance, he would be letting himself in far, did he 
mingle lies with truth. 

The mast compelling reason for this decision was, 
strange as it might seem, a punctilious consideration of 
others. 

He had all along recognized the fact that Miss 
Felicity was devoid of imagination. She was wholly 
unfitted by breeding and personality to cope imagina¬ 
tively with the raw facts of his story, to understand the 
challenge to chance he had made when he had walked 
out into Euston Road. 

Did he tell the truth concerning his pretence of lost 
memory, his reasons for the acquiescent acceptance of 
her innocent mistake would be utterly incomprehensible 
to Miss Felicity’s direct and simple nature, revolting 
to her sense of honour, unpardonable to her honest 
soul. Truth would cause her shock, disillusionment, 
and the cruellest unhappiness. 

“If I selfishly square myself with my own con¬ 
science,” thought Jerry, “I’ll do it over the 
mangled heart of Aunt Felicity. That puts it in a 
nutshell.” 

To lie, and to have to continue to live that lie, to 
awake each morning and know oneself to be a liar, to 
go to bed every night knowing one must sleep with a 
liar, would require almost superhuman courage in one 
fundamentally honest; but Jerry believed he had the 
strength to do it, if the cause for which he was doing it 
were sufficiently vital to him. He, who had suffered 
the martyrdom which deception brings, knew only too 
well the secret woe to which he would be condemning 
himself. 

He recalled once having read a book in which the 
adored wife, after four years of wedded trust and happi¬ 
ness, awoke one night, sat up in bed, and, by the light 
of a guttering candle, squared herself with her con- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


245 


science. She confessed to her husband that she had 
deceived him, she confessed she had never loved him, 
she confessed she had not had the right to don the 
virginal white at the altar. 

Jerry vividly remembered his indignation when he 
had read that confession, how he had cried aloud, “The 
coward, the selfish coward! ” He had felt that woman 
to be no less a criminal than the murderer who kills 
the body of a fellow human being. She had, in that 
one hour of self-righteousness, of immoral moral-house¬ 
cleaning, murdered a great and good man’s faith and 
happiness for ever. He had flung the book down in 
furious disgust, refusing to read further. Then he 
had searched his own soul to find whether he, in her 
place, would have been possessed of the exalted cour¬ 
age to keep silent—to carry that cancerous secret to 
the grave. He had told himself proudly, at the time, 
that he could have done it. 

Now he found himself face to face with a similar 
situation. He could shrive his own soul, as that wife 
had done, but he’d cleanse himself at the cost of Aunt 
Felicity’s peace of mind and faith. And Polly’s too. 
Destroy her faith and love. . . . 

And, after all, it wasn’t as if he had deliberately 
planned to deceive Aunt Felicity. When he had 
bethought himself of the brilliant “Solution,” his 
only object had been temporarily to procure food and 
lodging at the expense of the British public, until he 
could get back the required force to renew his fight for 
existence. It had never occurred to him that he might 
be adopted by any one because of the peculiar accident 
of a resemblance to some one’s lost relative. He had 
never dreamed of deceiving any individual. He was 
only indulging in a broadly impersonal deception. 

Of course he could not hold himself guiltless. He 
didn’t try to. Especially guilty he realized himself to 


246 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


have been in permitting Miss Felicity to continue in 
her hallucination that she had found her own nephew; 
unpardonably guilty in not having fought his longing 
for love—the longing which had been bred of hard 
knocks, homelessness, and all those brutal years in 
France; he should have told her at once, there in the 
police station, that he was not Monty Trevider, and 
that he was Jerry Middleton. But he had felt power¬ 
less at the time. He had seemed controlled by some 
irresistible force which, paralysing his sense of honour, 
had pushed him over the chessboard for some hidden 
purpose—toward some unknown destiny. Whether 
he, Jerry, would ever realize the design or not, he 
firmly believed the events of the past months had not 
been of his own making, that even the solution of his 
own “Solution” had come from some extraneous and 
hidden source. When he had descended that shaft, 
it was solely for the purpose of rescuing a dog in 
distress. The blow on the head had not been of his 
own planning; it had at the moment seemed only an 
awkward and unnecessary accident. Yet, as he now 
relived that upward look, the discovery of that star 
far off in infinity, and the simultaneous revelation 
which had come to him of the meaning of the injury 
to his head, he regarded the star and the opening of the 
door of escape as co-evidences of some supernal in¬ 
comprehensible force which man could never hope to 
understand or combat. A single stray vagary of 
thought in the human brain is as mysterious a miracle 
as birth, the creation of a planet, or the destruction of 
a sun. We are thrust on to the stage of this world 
blindfolded, to enact our small part in some infinite, 
stupendous drama, under the direction of an incon¬ 
ceivably omnipotent stage manager. 

Jerry even believed, should he now try to tell the 
truth, he’d be checkmated again by a power, disguised 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


247 

in the form of a Dr. Baragwaneth or some other 
motley. 

He was too intrinsically honest not to sense to the 
uttermost the thorny path now set him to tread. 
Should Polly, by the grace of fate, ever become his 
wife me must look into her trustful eyes, himself 
veiling an old lie. He must never—could never— 
confess and feel himself a perfectly clean soul before 
her. 

The full realization came to him of the pathetic 
longing of every human heart for confession. The 
great Catholic Church had planned an irresistible lure, 
based on transcendentally true and wise psychology, 
in recognition of that tragic, ineradicable need of the 
soul for the confessional. 

“Am I big enough to shoulder this burden?” Jerry 
asked himself. “Can I enact this role which I now 
feel I am directed to play? Am I bigger than my own 
instincts—my own nature?” Then he asked himself 
what were his own instincts, his own nature—had he 
made them? Could he forestall any impulse, impede 
the entrance of any thought, to his brain, control the 
coming of any situation which might suddenly reveal 
new and unfamiliar instincts within him, avoid associa¬ 
tion with unheralded and curiously powerful indi¬ 
vidualities, which might, in their influence upon him, 
develop things in his nature which had not hitherto 
been apparent? 

But to lose all sense of individual volition, of tangible 
personality, would mean nullity. One must fight for 
a certain degree of self-possession, for a saving sense of 
self-determination. He would believe that the human 
will had power, that the individual could take on 
responsibility—deliberately chosen responsibility. I ti¬ 
de pend ability of Fate he would take on the responsi¬ 
bility of his chosen action in this matter, and as he 


248 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

dealt with Aunt Felicity and Polly so could the future 
deal with him. 

“I hereby swear,” said he aloud, “to seal one chapter 
of my life for ever in the vault of my own soul, so 
help me God!” 

He turned over, closed his eyes, and slept the sleep 
which Nature grants without favouritism to the sinner 
and the saint. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


At eleven o’clock in the forenoon of Wednesday, 
Miss Felicity, Polly, and Dr. Baragwaneth assembled 
in Jerry’s room by his request. 

Miss Felicity could not resist surreptitiously drop¬ 
ping a few tears into her handkerchief at the first 
sight of her dear Monty. With his head swathed in 
that bandage, the poor boy reminded her so strikingly 
of a picture she had once seen of a turbaned Eastern 
potentate on a visit to England. It made her feel 
as if the dear boy was a foreigner. 

Polly had said nothing by way of greeting, but she 
had lightly passed her fingers over the back of Jerry’s 
hand in passing his bed. Her cheeks were suffused 
with an unusual colour. 

Jerry was very pale, though there were spots of 
hectic colour under the eyes, and a curious metallic 
glint in the eyes themselves. Every fibre of his being 
seemed strung taut. He felt that at any moment he 
might snap in a hundred places if the strain became 
a fraction greater. 

“Sit near me, Aunt Felicity,” he begged. “Sit 
where I may touch you—if I need to.” 

Jerry felt that one close look into Miss Felicity’s 
trusting eyes, one touch of her dear, helpless hands, 
should he find his will faltering, or the agony of his 
dissimulation become too insupportable, would fortify 
and strengthen him. He took her hand and stroked 
it gently, as if imploring her forgiveness for any pain 
he might be about to give her. He mentally sorted 
249 


250 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

over preliminary phrases and wondered just how to 
begin. 

“If what I’m about to say hurts you”—he turned 
pathetic eyes on Miss Felicity—“please forgive me. 
I have recovered my memory. In recovering it, I 
realize I have lost the right ever again to call you 
Aunt Felicity.” 

“Oh! my dear boy!” cried Aunt Felicity. “You 
are far too conscientious, you are merely fretting 
unnecessarily over some trivial omission or com¬ 
mission in the past. No right to call me Aunt Felicity, 
indeed! You could do nothing, you have done 
nothing in your life, my darling, which would or could 
deprive you of that right in my sight. How you have 
misjudged me! I am not a hard old woman, Monty. 
I can understand, forgive anything, done by those I 
love, by my own dear flesh and blood.” 

“You’ve misunderstood me,” said Jerry gently, with 
love in his eyes but steel in his soul. “It is—alas for 
me!—it is, that I now know you are not my aunt. I 
am not your nephew.” 

Miss Felicity’s lips fell open. Her eyes stared 
wildly at the speaker. She wondered which was mad 
—herself or Monty. 

Polly’s fingers interlaced so tightly they ached, but 
her face was kept under perfect control. 

“Not Monty?” gasped Miss Felicity. 

“No, Aunt Fe—I mean, Miss Felicity. I am no 
relation whatever. My name is Jerrold Emerson 
Middleton.” 

Miss Felicity’s face seemed to freeze into a deathly 
blankness. She put a hand to her heart. 

“Now, doctor,” said Jerry, “I may be the example 
of an unusual mental phenomenon, or I may be but a 
very commonplace example of the erratic workings 
of the human brain. I don’t pretend to understand 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


251 


my own case. I know only that in recovering my 
memory, when I was down there in that shaft yester¬ 
day, I recovered an amazing lot. I have since recalled 
not only all that preceded the day on which I appar¬ 
ently lost myself—recalling every detail of my child¬ 
hood life and youth—but, with the exception of two 
spaces—each of about twenty four hours’ oblivion, 
I should say—I recall all that happened afterwards— 
everything that has taken place since Miss Trevider 
adopted me in the mistaken idea that I was her nephew. 
I remember distinctly all that has occurred since I 
have been called Monty Trevider, except the time I 
was under the influence of your drug, just as distinctly 
as I do my former experiences, but with a curious 
distinction. I recall the Middleton part of me as Jerry 
Middleton—that is, the Middleton part is realized 
wholly from the point of view of the me that was 
Jerry Middleton, and the Monty Trevider part, from 
an utterly different Trevider angle. How can I make 
myself clear? I mean, it is as if I had actually been 
two distinct personalities, which, have, however, 
somehow become mysteriously merged into a com¬ 
posite me, which is, so to speak, Middleton-Trevider.” 

‘‘Very remarkable,” commented the doctor in a 
non-committal tone. 

“Of course,” continued Jerry, “this peculiar grip 
on the two separate personalities and their distinctly 
individual memories—before and after the two blank 
spaces mentioned—may be contrary to all your 
medical science, but what are you going to do when 
you face theories with facts?” 

“Science must bow to fact—necessarily,” smiled 
the doctor. “If it is fact,” he added meaningly. 
“Now I have a theory which I would like to submit. 
There is such a thing as delusion, and another thing 
which I may term self-hypnotism. In my opinion, 


252 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


you are the victim of both. I believe you to be Miss 
Trevider’s nephew and at the same time Jerrold 
Middleton.” 

“But, in Heaven’s name-” began Jerry. 

“Doesn’t it occur to you that you may have 
assumed the name of Jerrold Middleton on leaving 
England, dropping that of Trevider, and that in your 
present state of mental delusion you have temporarily 
forgotten that fact, and on recalling your career as 
Jerrold Middleton you have mistakenly supposed it 
to be that of a separate entity, while, as a matter of 
fact, it was only one phase of Monty Trevider?” 

“Good Lord!” was all Jerry could articulate. And 
he had supposed this old duffer such an owl—had 
thought himself in his power—had imagined that the 
old fool knew all! Who’d been an ass? Surely it 
was a case of 50-50. 

“It’s a beautiful theory,” Jerry smiled, “a corking 
one, and for some reasons, and Aunt Felicity’s sake, 
I only wish it was related to fact, but it’s not. As ai 
matter of simple fact, I was born in-” 

“Ninety-Six!” the doctor interpolated, with a roar 
of laughter, as if he had perpetrated a joke. 

It was Jerry’s turn to show astonishment. How 
under the sun had the old fox discovered that? Did 
he after all know more than he was letting on? 

“I can’t see anything hilariously funny in that fact,” 
said Jerry, with dignity. “I don’t know how you 
came to know the name of my birthplace, but you’re 
right. I was born in Ninety-Six.” 

“You mean the year ninety-six?” asked Miss 
Felicity, feeling as if her head was spinning around, 
and everybody had gone quite mad, including the 
doctor. 

“He probably means that the thermometer stood 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


2 53 

at ninety-six in the shade, at the time of his birth/' 
laughed the doctor. 

Jerry reached for Miss Felicity’s hand. 

“Listen to me, dear,” he begged. “I was born 
in a small village in South Carolina. It is called 
Ninety-Six. In order that you all may get proof of 
the truth of my statement, I would like Dr. Barag- 
waneth to write our old doctor, Dr. Pickens, who 
brought me into the world. He would be able to bear 
out what I’ve claimed. We are careless in South 
Carolina; up to the time of the war—I mean the 
World War—we didn’t bother about birth certificates, 
but Dr. Pickens knows that I was born, for he attended 
my mother, and he can corroborate everything I’m 
going to tell you about my mother and my own youth.” 

Jerry then gave a brief account of his mother’s 
brave struggle after the death of her husband, and of 
his own life up to the point where we first met him, in 
his lodgings in Lisson Grove, London. 

It was at this point that Jerry forsook the path of 
straight truth and began to romance. 

“I was at the end of my tether—had reached the 
last ditch,” said he. “I’d failed over and over to get 
a job, and I hadn’t had enough to eat for several days. 
I’d pawned or sold everything I had. I had to sell my 
overcoat to pay my landlady, and then—here it begins 
to be less clear—a little shadowy. . . . Let me think. 
... I remember I had decided to do away with my 
worthless self. I remember—but rather as through a 
slight -fog—going out to a canal in Maida Vale, my 
few last personal belongings and keepsakes in a bag. 
I had destroyed all traces by which my identity could 
be established. I felt, as a suicide, I owed that to my 
mother’s memory and my father’s name. I weighted 
the bag and dropped it into the canal. I watched it 
sink, and as I watched it I must have lost courage— 


254 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


or found it—I can’t tell which. At any rate, I didn’t 
follow the bag into the water. Instead, I again set 
forth, penniless, and without one thing belonging to 
my past, in a last desperate hope that Fate might 
reshuffle the cards and give me a new hand. 

“I remember, as one does a dream, reaching the 
corner of Tottenham Court Road and Euston Road, 
and there my memory halts. It leaps a gap of what I 
suppose must have been twenty-four hours. My next 
memory begins just where Jerry Middleton seems to 
have passed out, leaving in his place an individual 
whom you, Aunt Felicity, called Monty Trevider. 
Does it all sound preposterous—impossible, Dr. 
Baragwaneth?” 

The doctor smiled ambiguously. He tapped his 
forehead thoughtfully. “We don’t pretend to wholly 
understand that mysterious organ back of this bone,” 
said he, “but I’ll undertake to say-” 

“You don’t believe me!” cried Jerry, feeling in¬ 
dignant, irrespective of the fact that he knew he had 
been lying. 

“/ believe you,” said Polly. She abruptly got up 
and without another word left the room. 

Miss Felicity and Dr. Baragwaneth exchanged 
glances as Jerry’s eyes were diverted. The doctor 
significantly tapped his brow and shook his head 
sidewise, as if to say: “Don’t take it too seriously, 
my dear lady.” 

Miss Felicity interpreted the pantomime to signify 
that the doctor now regarded Monty as either delirious 
or mad. Perhaps, after all, this would turn out to be 
only some hideous dream and the dear boy would be 
proved to be her own Monty. She couldn’t believe 
that this poor turbaned creature, looking so Trevider- 
like for all his Ottoman aspect, could be a total stranger 
with a shocking, unheard-of, commonplace name. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


255 


The doctor strolled over to the bed, produced a 
thermometer, and put it in Jerry’s mouth before he 
could protest. He drew out his watch and placed his 
finger on pulse. An enforced silence reigned. 

The doctor looked at the thermometer. “You’ve no 
business to be talking.” 

“But I’m going to,” said Jerry stubbornly. 

The doctor was just about to say, “It is against my 
orders,” when Polly reappeared. Jerry demanded a pen 
and paper. 

“I want to write out the address of my old family 
doctor in Ninety-Six and the address of my landlady 
in Lisson Grove. They can corroborate what I’ve 
said.” 

When Polly saw the pen in Jerry’s hand, an idea 
occurred to her. 

“Monty, would you mind writing out a sentence for 
me?” 

Jerry was perplexed, but replied he’d be glad to. 

“Write, ‘Your affectionate brother, Monty,’ ” she 
dictated. 

Jerry stared at her in stark amazement. “What 
under the sun are you getting at now?” 

Polly only said, “Write.” 

He did as she requested. 

Polly looked at the signature fixedly. Then she took 
a letter from a pocket and compared the handwriting. 

“Have you ever been in South Africa?” she asked 
Jerry. 

“South Africa!” he repeated, staring at her stupidly. 
“Of course I’ve never been there—I couldn’t have af¬ 
forded to get there.” 

Polly held the two sheets before Miss Felicity, the 
sample of Jerry’s writing and the letter from Johannes¬ 
burg. 

“I got this over three weeks ago,” she explained to 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


256 

her Aunt Felicity. “Read the whole letter, then you 
will understand why I felt honour bound at the time to 
keep it to myself. Moreover, I couldn’t be certain that 
it proved anything, for it might have been written in 
South Africa before Monty came to England—before 
you discovered the supposed Monty in London. You’ll 
see, however, that there is not the smallest resemblance 
between the two handwritings. Mr. Middleton’s story 
seems to me to prove beyond doubt that this letter was 
not written by him, but by my own brother, Monty, 
whom I believe to be at this moment in Johannes¬ 
burg.” 

Aunt Felicity was too staggered to fully take in what 
Polly was saying. She only thought: “Now she’s gone 
mad too.” 

It was Jerry’s turn for surprise. He gaped at Polly 
and felt the room reeling. So she had received a letter 
weeks ago from the real Monty, and she’d never given 
a sign by look or manner! Talk about acting. . . . 
He relinquished his self-placed laurels to Polly. Fate 
had indeed delivered the blow in the nick of time. . . . 
He impatiently watched Miss Felicity as she read the 
letter. Astonishment and incredulity fought their battle 
on her face for all to see. 

“Doctor”—she held out the letter—“you must read 
this too. I don’t know what to think or do. It does 
sound like Monty—the old Monty, but ...” A beau¬ 
tiful thought came into her mind—of course this Monty 
calling himself Middleton must be after all, and in the 
face of everything, her own boy. 

“But,” said she to Jerry, “you recognized Polly at 
first sight—you spoke her name.” 

“That’s very simple—very easily explained,” said 
Jerry, and proceeded to topple over her fairy castle by 
recounting the finding of the photograph and the over¬ 
heard conversation of Paynter with Wiggs. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


257 


“Dear, dear!” sighed Miss Felicity. She felt sure 
her brain had been turned upside down. The whole 
well-regulated, dependable world was now running 
higgledy-piggledy through space. 

“The identity of the writer of my letter could easily 
be established by a cable,” said Polly practically. 
“We’d know in no time.” 

“Why should we be precipitate?” asked Miss Fe¬ 
licity, as she turned and looked wistfully at the invalid 
in bed. It would smack of the unseemly to be in such 
a hurry to prove that the dear, chivalrous boy, who had 
risked his life to save a mere dog, was an outsider. It 
would be inhospitable to do anything which would seem 
to imply that they wished to thrust him from them, 
when he was lying there ill and helpless. He should 
only be the subject of their consideration and sympathy 
and care. She had never before realized how dear he 
had become. She loved him—loved him far more than 
she had ever loved the irresponsible Monty of long 
ago. 

“Oh! My dear boy!” she cried, bending and en¬ 
folding him in her arms as if she would hold him for 
ever close to her, keep the world of realities and sepa¬ 
rations at bay. 

Jerry put his arms about her with yearning tender¬ 
ness. He was conscious of an agonizing lump in his 
throat. Dam’ it all, he mustn’t cry! 

“You’ve been so good to me, Aun—Miss Felicity.” 

“Do you want to break my heart?” asked Miss Fe¬ 
licity. “If you call me Miss Felicity again I think I 
shall just die.” 

“Oh! Aunt Felicity—may I? Of course you’ll al¬ 
ways be Aunt Felicity in my heart. I’m so sorry about 
it all. I’ve caused you so much trouble. I can never 
forgive myself.” 

“ You’ve caused me trouble?” sobbed Miss Felicity. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


258 

“Why it’s I who have brought all this on myself and 
on you. I placed you in this dreadful predicament. 
As I once reminded you, you claimed nothing. I 
claimed you and brought you here and—oh dear! I 
feel so mixed up—everything is so incomprehensible. 
. . . Here you are looking our own Monty to the life. 
Why, here is his mouth”—she touched his face lightly 
—“his nose, his brow. ... It can’t be true—no, it 
can’t, can't. I can’t look at you and believe in the 
existence in South Africa, China, or goodness knows 
where, of some other Monty.” She suddenly straight¬ 
ened up, and a look of relief came to her eyes. “Didn’t 
I once tell you I could trust my heart’s instincts—that 
I could recognize the call of blood to blood? More 
than ever my heart tells me I am right; your blood calls 
to my blood. ... In the face of every proof under the 
sun, I tell you all”—she turned defiantly to the doctor 
and Polly—“this is flesh of my flesh and blood of my 
blood! I’ll stake my life on it. This is my nephew!” 
With which brave statement Miss Felicity seemed sud¬ 
denly to lose starch and wrinkle into little folds all 
over. She slithered down to the floor beside Jerry’s 
bed, looking for all the world like a crumpled, faded 
flower. 

Polly rushed to her. The doctor pushed Polly aside, 
and, lifting the limp little form in his great arms, said 
peremptorily: “Open the door.” 

Jerry was left alone. He had destroyed all the 
world that had become so dear to him. He must now 
face the desert which he had created for himself. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


Miss Felicity had recovered from her faint and 
was reclining on the couch in her morning-room. 

“Well, doctor,” she said, “what is your opinion?” 

“Opinion?” ejaculated Dr. Baragwaneth. My dear 
lady, if you’d asked for my surmises . . . Miss Trevi- 
der, what do we positively know of the brain ? I tell you 
we don’t know, we don’t knowl If two pathologists out 
of three agree on a case you’ve got a coincidence, but 
not necessarily incontrovertible facts. I tell you, 
madam, we doctors are attending college every moment 
of our lives; we are students who never reach gradua¬ 
tion this side of the grave. 

“The brain! Sanity! Insanity! What maintains 
the one, produces the other? 

“Now once I had the opportunity to make a post¬ 
mortem examination of the brain of a man who, in the 
zenith of his power as a brilliant barrister, became as 
mad as a hatter. With the use of a microtome I made 
sections—slices of one four-hundredth of an inch in 
thickness—and examined every tenth section under my 
microscope with the most scrupulous care. What did 
I find?” 

“Heaven only knows,” sighed the long-suffering Miss 
Felicity. 

“There was not a trace of anything in that brain to 
differentiate it from the brain of the sanest man who 
had ever lived. But I did discover a slight thickening 
in the walls of the cerebral artery of the Broca region. 

259 


r 2 6o FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

This should have caused aphasia—nothing more, 
but-” 

“Aphasia?” asked poor, bewildered Miss Felicity. 
She wondered if Dr. Baragwaneth was really talking 
sense or was he merely babbling balderdash in the hope 
of distracting her mind from the conflicting thoughts 
surging through her own cerebral centres? 

“Well, there is old Mr. Bodillo—he is suffering from 
aphasia. If he wants to ask for a drink of water, he 
will probably ask how far it is from here to Bideford.” 

“Why, he’s simply cracked!” pronounced Miss Fe¬ 
licity, with the finality of the unprofessional mind. 

“Cracked!” cried Dr. Baragwaneth indignantly. 
“He is not cracked. There is a unilateral weakness or 
hemiparesis of the oro-lingual movements, the symp¬ 
toms of lesion having both an objective and subjective 
aspect-” 

Miss Felicity groaned aloud. “I can’t endure this 
nonsense, doctor, indeed I can’t. Everybody seems to 
have gone as mad as March hares. If you rave on like 
this I, too, shall go mad. The only case on earth in 
which I take the slightest interest at this time is that 
of the poor boy upstairs. Do you think he is really 
responsible? Do you think he is capable of stating the 
whole truth?” 

“As for any positive knowledge concerning that 
young man’s cerebral condition, you and I are on a 
level. I will, however, remind you that the patient has 
at this moment a temperature of 103. He’s got a severe 
chill from his yesterday’s soaking, and has worked 
himself up into a fine condition of excitement. We 
must take his temperature into consideration in forming 
any conjecture regarding the reliability of his state¬ 
ments. Again: Though I am not a follower of the 
school of psycho-therapy, I must allow the tremendous 
influence of suggestion. Having become aware of the 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


261 


name of Middleton, because of something said by the 
patient while under the influence of narcotics admin¬ 
istered when he was ill in October, I, on his return to 
a state of complete consciousness, suggested to him the 
name of Jerrold Emerson Middleton, and asked him to 
concentrate on that name—to try to think in what 
relation he stood to the name. 

“Now, how can I tell how far I am responsible for 
the tale to which we have just recently listened? Act¬ 
ing on the suggestion supplied by me, the brain may 
have fabricated the entire story—just as a sleeping 
dream may be constructed round some wisp of a word, 
heard or read during the day. 

“I certainly believe that at some period of his life 
the young man called himself Jerrold Middleton, but 
I do not believe that to be his baptismal name. 

“You see, my dear madam, it is very difficult for a 
doctor or a detective to let go of a good theory. I’m a 
stubborn creature, and in being stubborn in this in¬ 
stance I am illogically contradicting my positive knowl¬ 
edge concerning the workings of the combination of 
alkaloids which I employed during his last illness, and 
under the influence of which he first uttered the name 
of Middleton. By every rhyme and reason I should be 
convinced that the replies made to the questions I put 
to him while in condition of seminarcosis were true— 
involuntarily true—the truth coming straight from the 
fount of subconscious realities. Yet here am I, clinging 
like a bally old donkey to a theory—an induced belief, 
if you like—that the patient is the victim of self-de¬ 
lusion, that he is your nephew, Monty Trevider, that 
he wrote that letter from South Africa, and that he 
imagined all that story—fabricated his experience in 
France—not voluntarily, mind you, but involuntarily. 

“I believe him to be honest, at heart. We must not 
forget that in telling this story he was deliberately 


262 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


throwing away every chance, depriving himself of his 
rights as heir to this great property and proud name/ 7 

“Then am I not to investigate further—not to cable 
to Johannesburg?” asked Miss Felicity. 

“Wait until to-morrow, my dear lady. Wait until 
the temperature is normal. There’s no desperate hurry, 
is there? You don’t want to rid yourself of him immedi¬ 
ately, do you?” 

“Oh no! Of course not.” 

“Then don’t cable until he’s had a chance to edit 
himself. We may hear a different story to-morrow. If 
we don’t, then cable. But I shall be very much sur¬ 
prised if you get a reply.” 

“You wouldn’t object to my wiring Mr. Keylock— 
our solicitor—would you? Oh! Dr. Baragwaneth, I 
feel I must talk to some one. I’m so chaotic—I really 
fear my wits are going. I must consult somebody— 
some man, and Sir Wilfred—well, I couldn’t expect him 
to leave his affairs in town just to come down for me. 
Mr. Keylock could get here quickly—on the night train 
from Plymouth. Not that I don’t trust you, my dear 
doctor, not that I haven’t implicit faith in your judg¬ 
ment, but the very profundity of your—your wisdom 
frightens my poor simple brain and I’d like to talk it 
all over with some ordinary man—like Mr. Keylock.” 

The doctor rose. 

“Wire him by all means. I do not pretend ever to 
infallibility, and in this case I realize I can say and do 
little to comfort you. In one thing, however, I feel sure 
we are in perfect accord—our liking for this mysterious 
young chap. Why, bless my soul, Miss Trevider, he’s 
the only man who has ever had the good sense and 
courage to tell me he wanted to knock me down! I’ve 
often deserved it, and said so to myself. So you see the 
boy and I are agreed on one point. And you and I are 
agreed on another—we both want to prove this fine, 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


263 

honest, unfortunate lad to be a Trevider. Am I right?” 

Miss Trevider could only press his hand as two tears 
coursed over her eyelashes. 

He had reached the door when Miss Felicity called 
to him: “One moment, doctor. Do you know, I had 
that same old dream last night, of which I’ve told you 
before. I dreamt-” 

“My good lady!” The doctor put up a protesting 
hand. “Look at the time. Here I’ve kept all my pa¬ 
tients waiting since eleven this morning, and it is now 
two-twenty o’clock. Do you suppose I’ve got time to 
stand here and listen to dreams?” 

Miss Felicity flushed. She was unaccustomed to 
abruptness. Only the old doctor could with impunity 
venture rudeness to a Trevider. 

“I beg your pardon for having detained you.” 

The doctor slammed the door. 

“Dreams!” he snorted inwardly. “No wonder 
women never make great scientists.” His brain pro¬ 
duced the name of Curie, but he thrust it violently out 
as he thought: “I bet even she is full of some sort of 
feminine nonsense—they all are—everything is that’s 
female,” he added as he flicked his old mare and she 
shied at a dancing leaf blown in her face by an impish 
wind. 



CHAPTER XXXIV 


In response to Miss Trevider’s wire, Mr. Keylock 
appeared shortly after breakfast the following morn¬ 
ing. 

Mr. Keylock weighed fourteen stone, but was not 
tall. The amount of cloth required for his trousers 
at the upper end was impressive; the material was 
necessarily drawn tightly over the imposing front of 
Mr. Keylock, but when he was not sitting down, the 
material draped the rear with melancholy folds. He 
had once been blond. Where the golden hair had been 
there was now a pink nudeness. In fact, the hairless, 
eyebrowless, eyelashless condition of face gave one 
always—until accustomed by intimacy—an uncomfort¬ 
able sensation of beholding some one entirely naked, so 
much did the face of Mr. Keylock dominate his body. 
The eyes of Mr. Keylock, like two dark buttons in pink- 
sewed buttonholes, eventually decided one more com¬ 
fortably that he really had the appearance of a very 
young, fluffless bird. He had a flattering way of lis¬ 
tening to his clients as if what they said was important. 

He now listened attentively to all Miss Trevider had 
to say about Jerry, then requested permission to inter¬ 
view the young man himself. 

After a half-hour upstairs he rejoined Miss Felicity, 
and declared himself entirely convinced by the story 
he had just heard. 

“However bitter the pill, you must swallow it, Miss 
Trevider,” said he, with conviction. “You have made a 

264 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 265 

mistake. He is not your nephew. He is undoubtedly 
the Jerrold Middleton he states himself to be. 

“He has given me the name of the lawyer—Mr. 
Brooks—with whom his father was associated in prac¬ 
tice. Is it your desire to pursue this matter further? 
Do you wish me to communicate with this Mr. 
Brooks?” 

Miss Felicity found but little consolation in the mat¬ 
ter-of-fact acceptance by Mr. Keylock of Jerry’s state¬ 
ments. She would have rejoiced had he found them 
unconvincing. She now clung desperately to the hope 
that the doctor had been correct in his surmises. After 
all, Dr. Baragwaneth was surely in a better position as 
a physician to judge of the reliability of the patient’s 
statements than Mr. Keylock. What did Mr. Keylock 
know of “suggestion” and the peculiarities of the 
“cerebral functions”? She regretted having sent for Mr. 
Keylock. 

She was still regretting it when Dr. Baragwaneth 
entered. After greetings were exchanged the doctor 
asked if he might be permitted to reread the letter 
from Johannesburg. After perusing it carefully he 
said: 

“It will, after all, be a very simple matter to find out 
if the writer of this letter and our patient upstairs is 
one and the same individual.” He pointed to that por¬ 
tion of the letter which recounted the injury to the bone 
of the leg. 

“There will, of course, be the cicatrice below the 
knee. I will go up at once and investigate.” 

When he returned he reported the patient better; his 
temperature was normal, but he had a severe cold in 
the head, and would better be kept in bed for a day or 
two. The wound was progressing satisfactorily. 

“But the scar?” asked Miss Felicity impatiently. 

“There is no scar on the leg below the knee,” con- 


266 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


fessed the doctor, “but I find the soles of the feet to 
be horribly scarred. It is a miracle he is able to walk 
—a miracle, I say.” 

“Scars on his feet I But how came he to be scarred 
on the feet?” 

“He refused to explain—seemed to wish to avoid the 
subject. I fear he is anything but proud of the circum¬ 
stances which produced those scars.” 

Miss Felicity showed by her expression that it was 
impossible to believe the scars to have been come by 
dishonourably. Her mind sped to the vital subject of 
the statement. “Does he still adhere to yesterday’s 
story?” 

“Yes,” said the doctor. “There is no discrepancy 
between the claims of to-day and those of yesterday. I 
realize—I must realize—that all replies made to my 
question while under the influence of the narcotic were 
true. I now even believe it to be true that the cat is 
dead.” 

Miss Felicity thought the doctor was indulging in 
some unseemly joke. She replied in cutting tones: 
“There are probably thousands of dead cats, but I can¬ 
not see that that -” 

“Yes, thousands,” acknowledged the doctor, “and 
one particular cat besides.” 

Miss Felicity decided that poor Dr. Baragwaneth was 
getting old. He was undoubtedly beginning to “dote.” 
It would really be advisable for him to take some young 
doctor as an assistant. What a predicament the coun¬ 
tryside would be in, should any one become seriously 
ill, with no one to depend upon but a Dr. Barag¬ 
waneth obsessed about dead cats. 

She turned to Mr. Keylock. He at any rate was 
still in a condition of normal, healthy, virile reason. 

“What am I to do?” 

“Cable at once to South Africa,” declared Mr. Key- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


267 

lock succinctly. Mr. Keylock himself dispatched the 
message, which was worded as follows: “Have you 
received my letter cable reply Polly.” 

When he returned to Tolvean he found Miss Felicity 
in a state of mental distress, which might be described 
as disbelieving conviction. Her mind was convinced, 
her heart clung tenaciously to foundationless hopes. 

“Shall I communicate with Mr. Brooks,” repeated 
Mr. Keylock, as though there had been no interruption 
in their conversation, “or shall I see him personally? 
I chance to be sailing for the States on business by the 
Aquitania next week. If you consider the matter suffi¬ 
ciently important to justify the expense of sending me 
to South Carolina I will proceed there after my case in 
New York is finished.” 

Miss Felicity seized the opportunity with alacrity. 
It would be far more satisfactory for Mr. Keylock to 
investigate in person. 

It then occurred to her, if it were indeed proved that 
her dear boy upstairs was not her nephew, he would be 
penniless. 

“Mr. Keylock, some provision must be made for him. 
This is all my fault. I have brought him to this de¬ 
plorable pass. I must do what I can. You know my 
own personal income far exceeds my modest wants. I 
can easily afford to settle-” 

“Not a ha’penny more than two hundred a year, Miss 
Trevider,” insisted Mr. Keylock. 

“It seems such a paltry sum,” sighed Miss Felicity, 
“but it will be something—it will keep him from starv¬ 
ing, won’t it?” 

“It will provide him with something until he can find 
work.” 

“Work! What can the poor boy work at? He 
doesn’t know how to do anything.” 



268 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


“Then the sooner he finds out the better it will be 
for him,” said Mr. Keylock. 

“You’ll arrange the papers at once, on your return to 
Plymouth,” said Miss Felicity, rising. 

After a tearful interview with Jerry, Miss Felicity 
decided it would take some diplomacy to make him 
accept anything whatever. He would not even consent 
to remain at Tolvean for the Christmas holidays. He 
was determined to leave as soon as he was physically 
able to travel. He insisted he must get to London and 
begin to “make good.” 

Next morning, as Miss Felicity and Polly were seated 
at the breakfast-table, a messenger arrived with a cable 
addressed to Polly. 

At the sight of it Miss Felicity paled; Polly flushed. 
Miss Felicity looked as if it might have been a message 
from another world. Polly’s fingers quivered with ex¬ 
citement as she store the envelope open. She read: 
“No letter yet love Monty.” The blow had fallen for 
one. The heavens had cleared for the other. 

When Jerry came down after breakfast on Saturday 
morning he was aware of a palpitation of heart. He 
had not seen Polly since the day of revelation. She had 
not been near him all Thursday and Friday. He longed 
yet dreaded to see her. He could say, do nothing as 
yet. He was now only Jerry Middleton—penniless, po¬ 
sitionless. Not until he had “made good,” proved him¬ 
self worthy, be in a position to support a wife, could he 
even look the love which more than ever filled his heart. 
Yet he longed to search Polly’s eyes. He passionately 
yearned to corroborate what he thought he had seen 
there just before he had descended the shaft. If he 
could again see that light of love, it would be a beacon 
to steer by in all the difficult days to come. 

He went into the drawing-room. Polly was not there. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


269 

He went to the library. It was empty. He climbed to 
Miss Felicity’s morning-room. “Aunt Felicity, where’s 
Polly?” he asked. 

“She left this morning for Tavistock. She’s had an 
invitation for the week-end with an old friend. I urged 
her to accept. The poor child has had a dull time since 
her return—we’ve not been entertaining because of— 
that is, because of your affliction of memory—and then 
the Boughton-Leighs being in mourning—I felt she 
needed diversion.” 

Jerry’s heart felt like a lump of ice. Then he’d not 
see her again . . t . for he’d made up his mind to leave 
on Monday. 

On Sunday, Jerry broke the facts of his true per¬ 
sonality to Wiggs. Wiggs maintained a remarkable 
calm. 

“So you see, Wiggs, instead of being a Trevider, I’m 
nobody.” 

“You are still yourself, sir,” said Wiggs, and it 
sounded as if he might have said, “You are still the 
Prince of Wales.” 

“Next to Miss Trevider and Miss Polly, Wiggs-” 

Jerry hesitated and felt queerly emotional. 

He turned away. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Wiggs, with his usual psycho¬ 
logical discernment of the full meaning of a half state¬ 
ment. 

“Have you kept the suit I was wearing when we first 
met?” asked Jerry. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then get it ready for me. I’ll wear it to-morrow. 
Do you realize, Wiggs, that suit is the only thing in the 
world I now possess?” 

“You possess that and much more, sir. You possess 
all those more valuable things which are not to be pur¬ 
chased from tradesmen. You possess your own char- 



270 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


acter, your appreciation of things, your sense of honour. 
They can never be taken from you. And, you’ll pardon 
me for reminding you of it, sir, but you possess the 
affection of—of several persons.” 

Jerry stared at Wiggs. Who’d have ever believed 
he could have made such a speech as that? Wiggs 
looked at that moment magnificent enough to have been 
mistaken for a British ambassador. 

“Wiggs, you’ve been a crack-a-jack, a regular educa¬ 
tion to me! I owe to you a whole lot of the new things 
you’ve reminded me I still possess. I want you to know 
that I shall not look back on you as only my servant. 
I shall think of you always as my best friend.” 

“Oh, sir!” was all the overcome Wiggs could reply. 

The parting of Jerry and Miss Felicity was heart¬ 
rending to both. She had insisted upon his accepting 
twenty pounds as her Christmas present; as for his 
clothes, “What could I do with them?” she asked tear¬ 
fully. So Sam had taken the trunk and bag to the 
station, and Wiggs was to drive there with his master to 
see him safely off. 

Wiggs had been paid off with a month’s extra salary. 
Miss Felicity had given him a letter of recommendation. 
The driver was to take him over to “Trelawny”—a 
neighbouring estate—after the master had gone. She 
had noticed an advertisement in The Western Morning 
News and thought Wiggs would find at “Trelawny” a 
position to his liking. 

It was in the drawing-room that Jerry and Miss Fe¬ 
licity parted—the room in which she had first welcomed 
him to Tolvean. Through both surged memories of 
that first evening. Jerry looked tenderly about the 
room. He wanted to impress every detail on his mem¬ 
ory. The room was indelibly associated in his heart 
with Miss Felicity and Polly—so much with Polly. 
Yet he suddenly found himself curiously unimpression- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


271 


able; everything seemed to have taken on an unreality. 
It was as if all this parting with things inexpressibly 
dear was happening to some one else. He did not real¬ 
ize that he had suffered to the limit of human emotion, 
and that beyond that point lay numbness. He seemed 
almost coldly self-contained when he took Aunt Felicity 
in his arms and kissed her good-bye. She clung to him 
wordlessly. She had intended to say so many things 
at the last and now she could say nothing. 

He had gone. She rushed to the window and watched 
the trap rolling down the drive. Jerry did not turn— 
he gave no backward glance. 

“Oh, dear God!” prayed Miss Felicity, “send him 
back to me—some day.” 

There was no assembled villagers, tenants, or fisher- 
folk to see Jerry off. He contrasted his going with 
his coming, two months earlier. The station was 
deserted. 

The train came in. Wiggs put Jerry’s bag in the 
carriage. He rushed off to see that the other luggage 
was safely in the van, then bought a morning paper 
and brought it back to Jerry. 

Jerry thanked him. He sat silent, and Wiggs stood 
silently staring out of the open door of the compart¬ 
ment. There was a sound of slamming doors. The 
guard blew his whistle. 

The moment of parting had come. Jerry stood. He 
held out his hand. 

“Good-bye, Wiggs. Good-bye, old man.” 

Wiggs ignored the hand, suddenly wheeled, reached 
out an arm, and slammed the door to. Wiggs was on 
the inside of the door. 

He quietly sat down in the seat opposite. 

“What does this mean?” asked Jerry. 


272 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

“It means I’m going with you, sir,” said Wiggs. It 
was as if he had said: “Whither thou goest I will 
go. . . 

Jerry’s self-control snapped like a bit of brittle glass. 
He was blinded by tears. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


The train had passed Grampound Road before either 
occupant of the carriage spoke, then said Wiggs: 

“May I presume, sir, to ask if you have any plans 
in town—if you are going to friends?” 

As Jerry replied in the negative he had a crushing 
sense of being a mere piece of driftwood. A shuddering 
vision came to him of his old “digs” in Lisson Grove— 
the soiled, lugubrious wallpaper, the tiny rusty grate, 
the fly-specked windows, the narrow iron bed, the 
filthy carpet. He mentally contrasted this sordid pic¬ 
ture with his late sweet, spacious, chintz-bedecked, 
luxurious bedroom at Tolvean. How could he endure 
cheap, dirty lodgings again? 

It was disconcerting to discover how easily one be¬ 
came accustomed to and dependent upon the beautiful, 
the downy. Never since that first night of his arrival 
at Tolvean had he consciously joyed in the beauty and 
comfort encompassing him; he had taken it all as a 
matter of course. Curious how easy it was to accept 
the good things of life, how one always felt surprise of 
an indignant character over the ugly things forced upon 
one. . . . 

Jerry now saw Tolvean in retrospect—its old fur¬ 
nishings, its simple, unpretentious English comfort— 
with the clearer vision which follows loss. Envisaged 
thus, Tolvean became invested with a singularly beau¬ 
tiful glamour. He yearned homesickly, regretting les 
oignons d’Egypte. 


273 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


274 

Wiggs coughed nervously, a trick he had when de¬ 
sirous of politely drawing attention. 

“I was going to make so bold as to say I would esteem 
it an honour, sir, if you’d accept my modest hospitality 
for a time. You see, I have a small flat in Bloomsbury. 
My sister Winnie lives there. It gives me a sort of 
base, so to speak, a home to return to when I’m not in 
service, or when I have my annual fortnight’s holiday. 
My sister would feel very proud to do what she could 
to make you comfortable, sir.” 

Jerry could not trust himself to reply at once. He 
was deeply moved by the kindness and thoughtfulness 
of Wiggs. 

“Gosh! Wiggs,” he managed at last huskily, “you 
get my goat. But perhaps you don’t realize what a 
burden I may be to you both. S’pose I don’t land a 
job? I may be on my uppers for no telling how long.” 

“Mr. Middleton, please understand I’m not forgetting 
my position, but I’d like to ask you, sir, if you’d per¬ 
mit me to make you a small loan. I have, in my time, 
been able to put aside quite a tidy little sum. It would 
make me happy if I could feel that may savings could be 
of some service to you now. May I advance you a 
hundred pounds until you get on your feet, so to 
speak?” 

Jerry got up impulsively and laid his hand on Wiggs’s 
shoulder. 

“Wiggs, I’ll be damned if you aren’t the whitest 
white man I ever came across. If I need money you 
can bet your bottom farthing I’d rather borrow from 
you than from any other man in the world. I’ll accept 
all your offers—your hospitality—everything else as I 
need it. Wiggs, how the deuce do you get that way? 
Tell me about yourself—your life.” 

Wiggs looked horribly shy. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


275 


“You see, it might make me forget myself and my 
own wretched existence for a time,” urged Jerry. 

Wiggs was beguiled. It was a simple story, unpre¬ 
tentiously told. 

The father of Wiggs had been head butler in the 
service of Lord Pendolver. Wiggs, as a little lad, had 
done the boots, polished the brasses, run on errands, 
and made himself generally useful. At an early age he 
had evinced a passion for reading and an all-absorbing 
ambition for an education. One afternoon when off 
duty he had assembled a number of the cottagers’ chil¬ 
dren and was playing at being schoolmaster; he was in 
the midst of a peroration on the Plantagenets when he 
chanced to look about and found that his master was 
standing near listening with a quizzical smile. 

Lord Pendolver was evidently impressed. A few 
days later he sent for the lad and asked him what he 
would like to become. Wiggs had promptly declared 
“a schoolmaster.” The master had sent him to a good 
school, defraying all expenses of his education. In 
due time Wiggs became teacher in a Board School. 

“A year later,” continued the narrator, “my sister 
Winnie, who was then nursemaid to his Lordship’s 
grandson, developed spinal trouble. She had never had 
a strong back. She needed treatment—expensive treat¬ 
ment. I saw that I couldn’t give her the care she re¬ 
quired unless I could make more than I was then 
earning. I went to see my benefactor and explained 
matters. He asked if I would care to accept the posi¬ 
tion of valet. He wanted to make a change.” 

“But,” broke in Jerry, “do you mean to tell me you 
could make more as a valet than as a schoolmaster?” 

“A Board School teacher in those days was shock¬ 
ingly paid, sir. As a valet I would have no living ex¬ 
penses. I could devote practically every penny of my 
generous salary to my sister’s case. I accepted the 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


276 

position, working with the valet then in charge for a 
month, until I had become familiar with the services 
required. I remained with Lord Pendolver for seven¬ 
teen years—in fact, until his death. I was with Mr. 
Montagu for two years, and after he left I remained 
near my sister in London until the outbreak of war. I 
volunteered in vain for over a year, pushing my age 
back as far as I dared. The second year I got over to 
France—was an orderly in a hospital for a time; then 
when the Derby Scheme came in I got at last taken on 
as a private in the infantry. But the training did me 
in. I crocked up on the route marching—went to bits. 
I had to be content with canteen work for the remainder 
of the war. As for Winnie, she was finally cured by 
osteopathy. I then took on the flat in town, and she 
has lived there ever since.” 

The story had not been heroically told, but Jerry 
sensed all the goodness and sacrifice hidden under the 
commonplace words. He wondered if Wiggs had ever 
wanted to marry. He put his wonder into words. 

“No, sir,” said Wiggs. “From what I’ve been privi¬ 
leged to observe of marriage, I wouldn’t say it is the 
only sure and safe road to happiness. I have never felt 
myself in need of a wife. My sister makes a home for 
me, and even though I’m not there often, it’s a comfort 
to have it to think upon, and to know it’s a home for 
Winnie too.” 

“How old are you, Wiggs?” asked Jerry. 

“Fifty-two, sir, come Michaelmas. I shall retire at 
sixty.” 

The last phrase sounded so English, so national, Jerry 
smiled. He had a vision of Wiggs retired, and it was 
a pleasant vision: Wiggs reading his books, Wiggs 
being waited upon by a grateful, affectionate sister, 
Wiggs discussing politics at the post office and at the 
pub, Wiggs assisting with the daily marketing. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


277 

Jerry lit what was about the fifteenth cigarette since 
he had left Tolvean. 

“Don’t you ever smoke, Wiggs?” he asked. 

“A pipe, sometimes,” confessed Wiggs* 

“Then light up,” said Jerry. 

Wiggs fumbled in his pocket for his tobacco. His 
face became troubled, he flushed guiltily. 

“Dear me, sir!” he cried. “I must indeed beg your 
pardon. I can’t see how I came to forget it. I must 
have been in a most unnatural state of mind. . . . Miss 
Trevider entrusted a letter and package to me to give 
you at the station, and, sir, in the excitement of my 
sudden decision to accompany you it completely slipped 
my mind.” 

“That’s all right,” Jerry assured him. “I’m really 
glad to find you’ve got a human memory.” He took 
the letter and package. 

“The package Miss Trevider said she’d been asked 
by Miss Polly to give you at the last, when you were 
leaving. She thought it best to have me deliver it with 
her own letter at the station.” 

Jerry’s heart glowed with expectation as he cut the 
string of the small parcel. So Polly had planned a 
surprise for him—some little parting gift, doubtless. 
Perhaps, too, there’d be a letter. He tore off the wrap¬ 
pings and sought in vain for a note, a message. He 
opened the pastboard box and paled as he saw, lying in 
a nest of cotton, the ill-fated diamond ring. She had 
returned their “fairy ring” without a word. 

Jerry, numbed with pain, scarcely took in a line of 
the mechanically read letter from Miss Felicity. The 
true significance of her loving generosity only gradually 
dawned upon him. It was so like her—so typical of 
her dear considerateness, this provision of two hundred 
a year. Miss Felicity had put it so delicately, so af- 
fectingly, he realized he’d be a brute did he refuse the 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


278 

offering. Her provision for him would serve only as a 
new stimulus to his ambition. He would make good! 
He’d have to, for Aunt Felicity’s sake, even if there 
was to be no Polly to work for. It seemed evident that 
Polly had no love for him after all. She had thrust 
him out of her life without a word of farewell. Yet 
what could Polly have said? He had not declared him¬ 
self—couldn’t. . . . His eyes descended again to the 
letter. He read: 

“I have communicated with Sir Wilfred, explaining 
the situation clearly. I have requested that he give 
you a position, if it be possibly within his power to 
make use of you. Failing that, I have asked that he 
use his influence to procure you some other berth. I 
recounted your cleverness with figures, how remarkably 
you had disentangled the estate accounts, and what 
judgment you had shown in all your suggestions in 
matters pertaining to the management of the 
estate. . . 

Dear Aunt Felicity! Jerry could imagine how de¬ 
lightfully she had overstated all his poor efforts. And 
how like her to forestall any failure on his part to get 
a job, by appealing to Sir Wilfred. Jerry hated to have 
to go to Sir Wilfred, but again he recognized that by 
not so doing he would hurt the dear little schemer who 
had used all her personal and Trevider influence to 
ensure a future for him. 

He again thought of Wiggs’s warm-hearted kindness; 
to Wiggs he had been but a penniless outcast, for the 
servant was unaware of Miss Felicity’s generosity. 
Then he recalled anew all the goodnesses of Aunt Fe¬ 
licity toward him, and forgot the wound given by Polly 
in this hour of loss and uncertainty. Jerry found him¬ 
self pervaded by a wonderful new peace and happiness. 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


279 

He and Wiggs took a taxi at Paddington and sped to 
Bloomsbury. 

The door of the flat was opened by a round-faced, 
rosy-cheeked, plump, middle-aged body, who had eyes 
only for her brother. 

“Well, Henry!” she gasped in astonishment, and 
would have enveloped her brother in her arms had she 
not received a quick, arresting look from the command¬ 
ing eyes of Wiggs, who, adroitly slipping beyond the 
reach of impulsive embrace, explained: 

“Winnie, my young master has done us the honour 
to accept my invitation to be our guest for a time.” 

Jerry thrust out a hand. “How do you do, Miss 
Winnie?” 

That overcome person quickly gave a damp hand an 
extra polish on an immaculate apron and then blush- 
ingly permitted it to be shaken. 

“And I’m sure you’re more than welcome, sir. Come 
in. Come in.” 

She ushered them into a small parlour, bravely fine 
with its plush-covered furniture, china clock, aspidistra, 
Nottingham lace curtains, and stuffed birds in a glass 
case. 

Not a word of apology did Miss Winnie utter for 
things taken unaware, not a word of reproach to her 
brother for thus appearing with a guest unheralded. 
She only shed about her a radiance of hospitality and 
an appreciation of the great honour done them. 

The sister and brother soon excused themselves, and 
Jerry forthwith heard sounds of a bed being made, and 
shortly after a door being closed; he surmised that 
Wiggs had been sent out to procure appropriate delica¬ 
cies for the supper which would be cooked in his 
honour. 

He sat contentedly smoking as he looked about at 
the humble finery. He found himself ruminatingly* 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


280 

rhythmically repeating, “Miss Winnie Wiggs, Miss 
Winnie Wiggs.” The name had a jolly sort of sound. 
Soon he found himself saying: 

“Winnie Wiggs, Winnie Wiggs. 

Tiddledy-winks and guinea-pigs.” 

Conscious of his own absurdity, Jerry laughed softly. 
Who’d have believed yesterday he could ever laugh 
again! Why, he felt as care-free and light-hearted as 
a boy. Life was good— good. 

Some time later he was proudly shown into a wee 
spotless bedroom, where he removed the dust-stains of 
travel in the hottest of water fetched by Miss Winnie 
in a shining copper can. 

When he was called to supper he entered the kitchen¬ 
dining-room to discover the table set for one only. He 
turned to Miss Winnie Wiggs, who alone was visible, 
and declared: 

“Now look here, Miss Winnie, this won’t do at all. 
I won’t eat a mouthful unless I may eat it with you and 
Wiggs. Tell me where you keep things and I’ll set the 
table properly.” 

Miss Winnie, after some giggly protestations, re¬ 
tired to consult with her brother; she returned with a 
smiling but disapproving Wiggs. 

It was a wonderful supper she had prepared—a 
cream of tomato soup, a fat, fluffy omelette, looking like 
a wave turning and breaking into foam (and eggs such 
a price!), creamed potatoes with parsley, hot toasted 
scones, a salad of many mysteries, an apple-tart with 
cream, and tea. Jerry ate with an appetite he had 
not known for weeks. 

Wiggs had evidently told his sister of the change 
in the identity of his master, but Jerry suspected he’d 
“laid it on” about the present status—probably repre- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


281 


senting him as an American millionaire—for Miss 
Winnie in now addressing him as Mr. Middleton con¬ 
veyed a peculiar deference, whereas in the beginning 
there had been only a half-timorous respect. 

As Jerry sipped his tea, he looked about the sweet, 
bright kitchen and observed its Cornish character. 
For cook-stove there had been installed a true 
Cornish “slab,” the dresser for china was filled with 
Cornish “clume,” the overmantel was adorned with two 
Cornish china cats, and the inevitable amusing pieces 
of Staffordshire—a huntsman and dog, a gallant and his 
last—and, of course, it had its “ticky-tock-tick and 
its brass candlestick.” 

He listened to the restrained conversation of his 
kindly hosts and basked in their simple consideration. 
A wave of thankfulness to a now benign Fate flooded 
him. 

For the second time in his life he repeated to him¬ 
self: 


The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds some hospitable hearth.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


Sir Wilfred had been terribly upset by Miss Fe¬ 
licity’s letter. To begin with, he had not been in¬ 
formed of Celia’s broken engagement; on reading the 
true status of the supposed Monty Trevider he shud¬ 
dered over the narrow squeak he had had. It did not 
occur to him to consider his daughter in the matter, or 
to think of her escape as fortunate. 

Fancy if he had hastened matters with an unmourn- 
ful impetuosity. . . . Fancy if he had married his only 
child to an unknown adventurer, with Heaven only 
knew what plebeian blood in his veins. It all demon¬ 
strated what precautions one should exercise in marital 
affairs. It demonstrated beyond all else that one should 
observe to the end of a twelvemonth the appointed-by- 
custom period of sorrow. 

Sir Wilfred reread the letter from Tolvean and ex¬ 
perienced no resiliency of sympathy. Of course he’d 
like to please Miss Trevider, of course one would 
naturally desire to do any favour possible for a Trevi¬ 
der, but—well, the demand was a bit thick 1 Why 
should one put oneself out for a mere Middleton— 
create a berth for a young man of no known class, and 
whose future must henceforth be entirely disassociated 
with all things Trevider? 

Miss Trevider was an estimable woman and a simple 
one. Yes, very simple. She unfortunately suffered 
from the affliction of being a woman. She was essen¬ 
tially the impracticable feminine. That she could 
fancy that he would disarrange the well-ordered affairs 

282 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


283 

of his office to make place for an unknown American 
was irrefutable proof that she was emphatically female. 

Perhaps if his affairs gave him the opportunity he 
might later on give Middleton a letter of introduction 
to some one. But even that would be a beastly annoy¬ 
ance. He himself always resented business friends who 
sent unemployed persons to him, expecting him to pro¬ 
vide assistance where they themselves had provided 
none. At the moment he could think of no one to 
whose opinion he was so indifferent that he would care 
to incur their irritation by sending to them an indigent 
Middleton, with the request that they provide a liveli¬ 
hood for the said Middleton. 

Of course he would write an appropriately sympa¬ 
thetic letter to Miss Trevider. He would promise to do 
what he could to meet her desires. But he would tact¬ 
fully make her realize, in a subtle manner, the vastness 
of the concerns of the Shipping Line of Boughton-Leigh 
and the enormous difficulties connected with even the 
slightest disarrangement of its perfectly adjusted ma¬ 
chinery. 

As for young Middleton he would make brief work 
of him. (Sir Wilfred was a past-master at bringing an 
unsought and unpalatable interview to a close.) He 
would begin by being suavely sympathetic with the 
unfortunate victim of disarranged memory; he would 
refer in proper terms of regard to Miss Trevider and 
her request, and then show, in a sentence, the incredible 
ingenuousness of that feminine request; he would with 
dignified impressiveness demonstrate to young Middle- 
ton the unquestionable advantage of a position in the 
office of his line, and having dangled this delectable 
plum for a moment’s vision, withdraw it neatly; then 
with a vague, non-committal promise of possibly used 
influence in other less distinguished quarters, rise and 


284 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


indicate with every line of his body that the interview, 
and the acquaintance, was at an end. 

He hoped Middleton would exhibit the to-be-expected 
American graspingness and present himself without de¬ 
lay. A disagreeable thing got over quickly was a dis¬ 
agreeable thing dismissed. Sir Wilfred left orders at 
the bureau downstairs that Mr. Middleton be sent up 
to his sanctum as soon as he might arrive. He hoped to 
get the tiresome affair over and the slate clean before 
his interview with Monsieur Epailly that morning. 
Monsieur Epailly was the gentleman in charge of the 
office of the Boughton-Leigh Line in Havre. Sir. Wil¬ 
fred had planned vast alterations and enlargements of 
the Line’s activities in France. 

Taking out a fragrant cigar and cutting it with ex¬ 
quisite care, the great shipping magnate leaned back 
and puffed quietly, becalming himself by degrees, as his 
eyes strayed pleasantly and gratifyingly over his ex¬ 
pressive surroundings. 

Sir Wilfred’s spacious sanctum was the last word in 
a restrained exhibition of unlimited wealth. Every¬ 
thing was the best of the best, but unflauntingly the 
best. The floor was covered by the thickest of deep 
sea-green velvet carpets, padded until the footsteps of 
mortals made no more sound than would the passage of 
ghosts. The huge, luxurious chairs were as padded as 
the floor. The deep ocean-green leather upholstery was 
as pliable and soft as Sir Wilfred’s own skin. The walls 
were the blue-green of waves. The desk, of the most 
modern business utility in design, was fashioned cun¬ 
ningly and elegantly in the palest of solid mahogany. 
The appointments of the desk—inkstand, blotter, calen¬ 
dar-holder, pens—were not of bourgeois brass but of 
regal gold. 

The mantel of pale mahogany suggested, in its mag¬ 
nificence, the architecture of the baronial hall. Hung 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 285 

in the centre of its over-panelling, in a dull Florentine 
frame of great beauty, was a painting of that sea which 
Sir Wilfred considered a part of his personal property 
—the part which had been created by a benign and far- 
seeing Providence for the accommodation of the great 
fleet of Bough ton-Leigh ships. 

The painting was the customary interpretation of 
the moonlit sea by Julius Olsson. In purchasing this 
painting, Sir Wilfred had not only shown an apprecia¬ 
tion of art, but had expressed his personal desire to do 
honour to the Olsson whose position, in the baronet’s 
eyes, was not so much dignified by the R.A. which the 
painter could write after his name, but because of the 
J.P. which, by the grace of Cornwall, he was also en¬ 
titled to use. 

Below the painting, in a niche of the mahogany of 
the mantel, stood a beautifully carved figure of St. Ia, 
the Irish princess and martyr so associated with Sir 
Wilfred’s own particular corner of Cornwall. 

On the walls hung four large paintings, by expensive 
English artists, of the most impressive of the Boughton- 
Leigh ships. 

The electric-light fixtures were artistic adaptations 
of the fantastic form of the hippocampus. 

The tall windows were hung with heavy velvet cur¬ 
tains of a colour suggesting mid-ocean at twilight. 

No one had ever felt frivolous in that room. No 
one had ever been known to laugh aloud there. It was 
not planned for the lighter moods of life. It was 
planned to awe as the sea awed. 

And Sir Wilfred Boughton-Leigh, when seated in his 
high-backed, carved, and leathered chair—somewhat 
suggestive of the coronation chair which resides in 
Westminster Abbey—felt himself essentially Nep- 
tunish, even if in his austere, attenuated body he held 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


286 

but slight resemblance to the generally accepted jolly 
conception of the god of the sea. 

Monsieur Epailly was announced by the liveried 
doorkeeper. 

Sir Wilfred greeted him with his manner especially 
reserved for the treasured heads of foreign branches. 

The Frenchman bowed stiffly with extreme formality 
and shook the proffered hand of the great master of 
shipping with an official solemnity. He gave no glance 
to the magnificent room, but stood immobile until re¬ 
quested to be seated. He retained his gloves. He sat 
with an amazing movelessness awaiting his chief’s open¬ 
ing of the business to be discussed. 

Sir Wilfred launched the subject impressively and 
proceeded to a conservatively restrained but no less 
vivid delineation of his lately conceived plans. Mon¬ 
sieur Epailly gave an impeccably respectful, calm at¬ 
tention. 

The door opened and Jerry Middleton entered un¬ 
announced. The moment of his coming was inauspi¬ 
cious. 

Inconsistently forgetful of his own instructions that 
Middleton was to be sent up on arrival, Sir Wilfred 
experienced the most irritable annoyance over the in¬ 
terruption. His manner became frigid. Without rising 
he said: 

“Good morning. I regret to say I’m engaged. If 
you’ll come to-morrow-” 

“Certainly. That’s all right, Sir Wilfred. Sorry I 
disturbed you,” said Jerry, turning to retire. 

The Frenchman had kept his eyes politely fixed on 
the desk, but at the sound of Jerry’s voice he turned 
sharply. Some potent magic seemed to transform him; 
every fibre of his body became electrified. His gloved 
hands first waved in the air, then his arms were ex- 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 287 

tended dramatically. In tones of tremendous emotion 
he cried: 

“Mon Dieu! Est-ce possible?” 

The Frenchman sped across the sea-green carpet like 
a rising hydroplane and enveloped Jerry in his wings 
as he ejaculated: 

“Mon brave! Mon brave! Mon cher ami!” 

Sir Wilfred was aghast. Never had he been forced to 
witness such unbridled emotion. The entire room 
looked outraged. And he, Sir Wilfred Boughton-Leigh, 
and his great affairs were being ignored, forgotten! 
That Middleton was actually laughing —laughing aloud. 
And Epailly was both laughing and weeping, as he fired 
French exclamations of joy and endearment with the 
rapidity of a .75 gun. Heaven help us! he was now 
kissing—yes, kissing Middleton on both cheeks! 

Sir Wilfred coughed. He coughed again more loudly. 
The third time he coughed consumptively. Attention 
was at last returned where it should have remained from 
the first. 

Monsieur Epailly turned to his chief and, dragging 
forward a smiling, deprecatory Jerry, said exuberantly: 

“Without doubt you also will have the desire to 
salute him. You will not let my presence prohibit 
your affairs together. What is this that I am, that I 
should take precedence over Monsieur Meeddleton?” 

He, Sir Wilfred, salute this Middleton indeed! Had 
Epailly become bereft of his senses? Sir Wilfred sat 
petrifiedly unmoved and unsaluting. 

“Is it possible that you have not the acquaintance of 
this ’ero?” 

Before Sir Wilfred could gather himself for a reply, 
the Frenchman was volubly recounting the tale of his 
adored Meeddleton. 

It was the night of the attack on a hospital back of 
Verdun, by the Boche aeroplane. Middleton himself 


2 88 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


was at that time a patient recovering from a scalp 
wound. Without warning the raider had come. An 
operation of grave seriousness was then in progress. 
All the doctors and most of the nurses were assembled 
in the operating theatre. That part of the hospital had 
been struck by the bomb. It exterminated all there. 
A fire immediately developed —un feu d’enfer. It was 
a case of sauve qui pent. Pandemonium! Chaos! 

Middleton, leaping from his own sick-bed, was seem¬ 
ingly endowed with inspiration and power by the good 
God. He had assumed authority and enforced order 
where there had been only frenzied confusion. He 
organized the saving of the helpless by those able to 
walk, himself exhibiting a coolness outside imagination 
and a generalship to be envied by the great Foch him¬ 
self. 

When all had been accomplished which seemed hu¬ 
manly possible there yet remained nine helpless un¬ 
fortunates in the hospital. These were the most critical 
cases—those considered sans espoir. Their ward had 
been rendered the most inaccessible, through the havoc 
wrought by the bomb. 

Middleton, forbidding all others to re-enter the hos¬ 
pital, himself returned again and again—each time to 
what appeared certain death from flames and falling 
timbers. 

He had at the greatest peril succeeded in at last rescu¬ 
ing eight of those grievously wounded poilus. And then 
fichtre! the dirty assassins are returned—returned to 
present another bomb in case their work of fiendishness 
had not been sufficiently accomplished. . . . Nom de 
Dieu! for the ninth time Middleton, deaf to the droning 
of the approaching machine, had re-entered that in¬ 
ferno. He reached the malheureux, lifted him from his 
couch, carried him to the rez-de-chausse —when dame! 
the second bomb struck. ... Oh! les canailles. The 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 289 

shock was terrific. Middleton and the unfortunate 
were flattened—half buried under debris of plaster, 
shivered wood, and glass. With a broken right wrist, 
with only a cut, scorched left hand to work with, he 
had extricated himself and eventually liberated the 
pinioned, helpless one. Bon Dieu! It was superb—of 
a car active miraculeux! 

With the wounded carried in the one good arm, the 
rescuer had finally reached the outside, the soles of his 
poor bare feet cut to bits by the jagged glass he had 
trod upon, his pyjamas tom to ribbons, his body 
bruised, bloody, scorched. . . . But it had been accom¬ 
plished! Middleton had saved the ninth and last! 

“Voyons!” cried Monsieur Epailly dramatically, “I 
am that ninth!” He stiffly came to salute. With quiv¬ 
ering lips he murmured, “Mon sauveur!” 

Sir Wilfred was irresistibly stirred. He had to get 
up and walk about to preserve a proper equilibrium of 
emotion. It was, of course, the damned contagious 
emotionalism of that Frenchman. . . . Suddenly, to 
his own amazement, he turned and grasped the hand of 
Jerry. “Fm proud to know you,” said he simply. 

“Bien sur, you must be proud,” cried Monsieur 
Epailly. “What said the great Petain when he has 
decorated him? He has said—the beautiful words re¬ 
main with me—he has said: ‘The ’eroism of this in - 
domptable soldier has been such as to challenge— defier 
—the admiration of every one.’ Mats c’est vrai! And 
you, mon brave , qa va bien? What do you now?” 

“Nothing,” confessed Jerry. “I’m hunting a job.” 

“A job?” 

“L’emploi” explained Jerry. 

Monsieur Epailly looked pained and amazed. “Is 
it possible that a ? ero is without employment? Come 
to France!” he cried lyrically. . . . “Come chez nous , 
mon ami. France does not forget her ’eroes. France 


290 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


will welcome you. As her ambassadeur I extend to you 
her remerciments. I offer you the employment in the 
name of la France ” 

This was too much for Sir Wilfred’s British soul. 
Could he permit France to outdo England in any point 
of appreciation? Of course it would have been better 
if Jerry had saved Englishmen, but the ninth French¬ 
man had been a valuable and able man—an employee of 
the Boughton-Leigh Line. 

“I must insist,” said Sir Wilfred, “that I have pre¬ 
cedence in this matter. Mr. Middleton came here to¬ 
day by an appointment made by a common friend of 
ours. I have need of him in my counting-house de¬ 
partment.” He turned to Jerry. “You will please 
report to-morrow morning at half-past eight.” 

Jerry expressed his thanks and turned to bid Mon¬ 
sieur Epailly adieu. 

“But you go? Then it is necessary that I go with 
you. We will lunch together. I will drink a votre 
santi. And we will drink once more together to la 
belle France , n y est pas?” 

Monsieur Epailly seized his hat. He bowed stiffly 
to Sir Wilfred and said, “Cheerio,” which he fancied 
to be very good English form and expressive of au 
revoir. 

Sir Wilfred and his important plans for the French 
branch at Havre were unceremoniously left to be con¬ 
sidered at another hour! 

“Damme!” gasped Sir Wilfred. 

He lit another cigar, drew a sheet of paper toward 
him, and picked up a slender, gold-handled pen. He 
would now write the estimable Miss Trevider and 
assure her of his pleasure in meeting her desires. He 
would do all that lay in his power for her protege. It 
would be pleasant to recount to Miss Trevider the hero¬ 
ism of that young man to whom his daughter had once 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


291 


been engaged. He would deftly mingle the proud 
obligation felt by Englishmen toward all heroes, irre¬ 
spective of the flag under which the glory had been 
achieved, and his own appreciation of the opportunity 
given him of honouring one who was at once the friend 
of Miss Trevider and a soldier decorated by Petain. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


Jerry went to work with such enthusiasm and dem¬ 
onstrated such capabilities he surprised every one, in¬ 
cluding himself. Within a fortnight he was entrusted 
with greater responsibilities and received a compliment 
from the Chief. 

His days passed with rapidity and contentment. The 
Wiggs’s surrounded him with every comfort within their 
modest power. Though Wiggs pretended he was taking 
a holiday, he, as a matter of fact, performed exactly 
the same services for Jerry which he had rendered in 
the past, when a salaried servant. 

Miss Winnie Wiggs insisted upon bringing in Jerry’s 
seven o’clock tea herself, and she took the greatest 
pride in attending to all necessary darning and mend¬ 
ing. 

They had a quiet, happy Christmas with much good 
food. Jerry delighted the heart of Miss Winnie by 
getting tickets for the pantomime at Drury Lane on 
Boxing night. 

January passed without any notable incident. Febru¬ 
ary came and found Jerry ever more engrossed and 
interested in his work. It was on the morning of the 
9th of February, just a little over nine weeks after Sir 
Wilfred had given him employment, that Jerry found 
on his desk a slip of paper on which was a request that 
he report himself on arrival to Sir Wilfred. 

Jerry had not been in the imposing sanctum of the 
Chief since the memorable encounter with Monsieur 
292 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


293 

Epailly. He found Sir Wilfred seated in the corona- 
tional chair before his desk. 

“Good morning, Middleton,” said he cordially. “Be 
seated. By this morning’s post I have received a letter 
from Miss Trevider. She requests that I permit you to 
go down to Cornwall on Friday—that’s to-morrow. I 
cannot see why the week-end would not have served 
equally well, but of course women have no comprehen¬ 
sion of the value of time. Can you get matters in such 
shape that you may conveniently leave by the Riviera 
to-morrow?” 

“Yes, sir, I can,” said Jerry, trying to disguise his 
perturbation and joy. Aunt—Miss Felicity is not ill, 
I hope—every one is well?” 

“She does not mention any illness. She refers at 
the end to the return of Mr. Keylock from the States. 
I cannot see why she would think I am interested in 
the travels of her solicitor.” 

“Then I may go?” 

“Yes.” 

“Thanks, Sir Wilfred. Anything I may do for you 
while I’m down there?” 

“No. Thanks,” said Sir Wilfred abstractedly, again 
preoccupied by his own affairs. 

It took every ounce of will-power Jerry possessed to 
concentrate on work that day. The thought of return¬ 
ing to Tolvean, if for only a week-end, thrilled him to 
the depths. The thought of again seeing Polly made 
his hand tremble to such a degree that the figures writ¬ 
ten looked as if they had been done by a man with 
palsy. And the thought of dear Aunt Felicity was like 
the song of a bird at the door of his heart. 

Jerry walked home to the Wiggs’s flat that evening. 
A bus would have been insufferable. He wanted action 
and a chance to think. 

London had never looked more entrancing. There 


294 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


was a light fog, to which the sunset lent a golden radi¬ 
ance. Everything took on a faerie, ephemeral unreality. 

Although Jerry’s mind was a seething mass of antici¬ 
pations and excitements, his senses were sharpened to 
an unusual keenness. Not the subtlest nuance of 
beauty was lost upon him. He joyed in the loveli¬ 
ness and loveableness of London as never before. He 
felt the same tender pride in her that the born Cockney 
feels. 

. London was good. Life was good. Everybody was 
good. It was a “topping” old world after all. . . . 
Jerry marvelled at the change of his views about life 
since two months earlier. 

It really looked as if some amazing turn of the tide 
had occurred from the moment he had made that de¬ 
cision to take the responsibility of his own actions 
irrespective, independent of Fate. It looked as if he 
had unwittingly called a bluff and won out. Or was it 
that Fate had put him to some sort of ultimate test, 
and, finding that the marionette stood pat—refused to 
dance longer to the pull of the strings—had decided to 
change his methods? 

That was a fine mutinous cry of Henley: 

“I am master of my fate, 

I am captain of my soul. . . 

even if it was disputable. 

Perhaps, though, defiance did give one a power. He 
remembered a man who was not a Christian Scientist, 
or a Christian anything, once telling him that he could 
damn a pain out of his body. In other words, he defied 
it, refused to give it place. 

Returning to his own case, Jerry wondered if after 
all the change which had occurred in his fortunes might 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


295 

not perhaps be but a demonstration of the natural law 
of the Great Pendulum. 

All the fundamental movements of the universe are 
vibratory—the seasons, the tides. . . . Heat, cold, 
storm, and calm—were all manifestations of the swing 
of the pendulum from one extreme to the other. The 
movements of things physical and moral were governed 
by the same law. 

We seem at times to get into a sinister current and 
meet with nothing but disaster. We call it “bad luck.” 
Then the tide shifts and we have what we call “a run 
of luck.” 

He had surely had a run of luck since that day on 
which he had told his story to Aunt Felicity, Polly, and 
the doctor. And yet at the time it looked as if he were 
throwing everything to the winds, making himself a 
homeless pauper. From the very depths of his blackest 
despair—on the journey to London—he had suddenly 
soared upward—tasted genuine happiness, the happi¬ 
ness bred of a true realization of the great-heartedness 
and goodness of others. Wiggs had sowed the first 
seed of Jerry’s new-found joy of life. Then there was 
the generous sweetness of Aunt Felicity, and the simple 
kindness of Miss Winnie Wiggs. (Jerry even imagined 
himself the object of Sir Wilfred’s generous goodness. 
Fortunate, indeed, is the wearer of rose-coloured 
glasses. . . .) 

And now that he was invited down to Tolvean his 
cup of joy bubbled entirely over. He attempted no 
surmise of the whys and wherefores of the invitation. 
Jerry was unaware that Miss Felicity had sent Mr. 
Keylock to South Carolina. 

When he reached the Wiggs’s flat and announced he 
was going down to Tolvean next day for the week-end, 
Wiggs asked permission to go with him. And so it was 
they arrived together at Trewarthenith and drove out 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


296 

to Tolvean, each reliving in his own mind the bitter 
anguish of that last drive over the moorlands. 

Miss Felicity was waiting at the door to greet Jerry, 
her little body an aspen leaf of quivering excitement 
and joy. Jerry waved to her at the turn in the drive; 
then, unable to restrain himself, leapt from the still 
moving trap, ran forward, and in the violence of his 
embrace lifted her off her feet. 

“Let me look at you,” cried Miss Felicity. She held 
him off and examined him tenderly. “Oh, but you’re 
looking bonny!” 

“I’m as fit as a cat and a fiddle,” laughed Jerry. 
“And how’s everybody?” By everybody he meant 
Polly. 

At that moment Polly came down the stairs with a 
rush. She approached, smiling as composedly as if her 
heart were not trying to jump out of her body. Jerry 
was thankful he was not an octopus. If he had been, 
he felt sure he would be exhibiting every emotional 
iridescent hue imaginable. 

He and Polly shook hands, murmuring conventional 
greetings. Miss Felicity went out to greet Wiggs and 
express her pleasure that he had come with Mr. Middle- 
ton. Polly and Jerry were left alone. Jerry felt and 
looked frightfully shy. Polly, entirely unembarrassed, 
said: 

“Come on into the drawing-room. I’m awfully glad 
you’ve come, for I’m just bursting with gossip. It will 
be such a relief to have some one to talk to. What do 
you think? Celia is in love with the awful Coolie!” 

“I knew that all the time,” said Jerry complacently. 

“Well!” cried Polly, with mingled astonishment and 
disappointment. “And I thought you’d be bowled over 
with surprise. It was Mrs. Spankie who brought things 
to a climax. You see, Coolie just went off his head 
.about her—pauper or no pauper. He got so absolutely 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


297 


silly she evidently thought it expedient to show her 
hand, so she let it be incidentally known that she’s 
engaged to a subaltern in India—Aunt Felicity says she 
must have a passion for poverty—and she’s to go out 
there to be married as soon as he gets promotion. Well, 
then Celia saw her chance, and she has worked it for 
all she’s worth. She really ran after Mr. Coolie in the 
most brazen way. But I don’t think Mr.. Coolie needed 
a fearful amount of coaxing, once he’d really got his 
senses back, for, of course, Celia and Celia’s prospects 
of money aren’t to be sniffed at by an indigent curate. 
Won’t Sir Wilfred absolutely froth at the mouth with 
rage?” 

“He won’t take it lying down.” 

“But Aunt Felicity is on Celia’s side, and you know 
she has a tremendous amount of influence with Sir 
Wilfred. I’m putting the odds on Aunt Felicity.” 

“He’ll do the decent thing by Celia in the end, you 
may be sure.” 

“And Mr. Coolie’s trying to get a living in British 
Columbia. The Bishop is in England now.” 

“Celia will love it out there, where ‘big sins are com¬ 
mitted by charming people.’ I think it’ll be an ideal 
match. I’m glad somebody can get married and be 
happy,” sighed Jerry, as he took out a cigarette. 

Polly got up quickly. “I mustn’t keep you another 
minute. You’ll be wanting to freshen up after your 
journey. You won’t have more than ten minutes before 
dinner, so don’t try to ‘doll up.’ ” 

“But didn’t Aunt Felicity want to see me about 
something?” 

“Oh, not before dinner,” laughed Polly. “Nobody 
ever does anything on an empty tummy in this house. 
Run along now.” 

When Jerry was half-way up the first flight of steps 
he heard Polly come into the hall. She called up shyly: 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


298 

“I think you were just—just topping, out there, in 
France—I mean during that air raid.” 

“Oh, that!” said Jerry disparagingly. He blushed 
and ran on up, two steps at a time. To Jerry, Polly’s 
praise beat the croix de guerre all hollow. 

In spite of the ten minutes, Jerry found Wiggs await¬ 
ing him with evening clothes in readiness. He did a 
lightning change, soon reappearing, below, looking, as 
Polly thought, remarkably handsome. 

It was a happy meal. Even Aunt Felicity gave free 
rein to her inner joy. She drank an extra glass of wine 
and became quite scintillating. In the midst of the 
general laughter and gaiety she, however, seemed to be 
suddenly seized with quaint misgivings. “I hope,” said 
she, “we are not indulging in what the Bible calls 
‘revelling.’ ” 

At this Polly laughed and choked on a mouthful of 
water, and had to be pounded on the back by Jerry. 
She gasped, gurgled, wept, and laughed. The butler 
at this point became so infected he had to retire from 
the room. 

After dinner, Miss Felicity, trying to curb her excite¬ 
ment and to appear quite serene, said perhaps Polly 
would play a little for them. Later on she’d like to 
have a talk with Jerry in the morning-room. 

Jerry had the greatest admiration for the self-control 
exhibited. He realized Miss Felicity’s desires were all 
for an immediate tete-a-tete. 

Polly mercifully played the two shortest Chopin 
Preludes. At their conclusion she said: “Now that’s 
absolutely all for to-night. I’m reading Ferrere’s La 
Bataille, and I can’t wait another second to get back 
to it.” 

Miss Felicity got up. Jerry, putting an arm about 
her, led her from the room. He could feel the beating 
of her fluttering little heart. When they reached the 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


299 


morning-room, Jerry put her in the most comfy chair, 
tucked a pillow behind her back, and then flung himself 
at her feet. It was just as they had sat five months 
earlier on the night of his arrival at Tolvean. 

“My dear,” said Miss Felicity, “I haven’t mentioned 
it before, but you must now know that I sent our so¬ 
licitor, Mr. Keylock, to Ninety-Six, to find out all he 
could for me about you and your father.” 

“Really!” exclaimed Jerry in surprise. 

“He was able only to verify your statements aoout 
yourself. Unfortunately he was unable to discover 
anything further regarding the history of your father, 
but he had a very interesting talk with Mr. Brooks. 

“It seems, my dear, your poor father realized for 
some time that his life was nearing its end. He grieved 
very much that he would not live to see his child. He 
entrusted to Mr. Brooks a safety-deposit box, which he 
asked Mr. Brooks to deliver to his child, whether boy 
or girl, on its twenty-first birthday. 

“You, it appears, left Ninety-six abruptly about five 
months before coming of age. You did not say good¬ 
bye to Mr. Brooks. You told no one of your intention 
to go to France. You left no address with any one. It 
was impossible for Mr. Brooks to trace or locate you. 
So he was unable to deliver the box when the appointed 
time came. He had almost come to the conclusion that 
you were dead—killed in the war. He was overjoyed 
to hear of you again, and delivered the box to Mr. 
Keylock to be given you.” Miss Felicity got up and 
went to her desk. She took from a drawer a black tin 
box. “Here it is, and here is the envelope containing 
the key.” 

Jerry had risen. He received the box silently. 

“Take it up to your room, dear. You will want to 
be alone with this message from the dead. If after 


300 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


you’ve read if you want to see me, you’ll find me await¬ 
ing you here.” 

As one in a dream, Jerry walked from the room and 
up the stairs. He sat staring dazedly, holding the box 
and the sealed envelope. He was facing the first actual 
contact with his dead father. That father, dying before 
Jerry’s birth, had seemed more nebulous than a char¬ 
acter of fiction. He had been a name, nothing more. 
Now he suddenly began to grow real—and wonderfully 
near. 

It seemed as if there was a presence, never before 
felt. Jerry’s heart yearned toward the dead and never- 
known father. With reverence he broke the seal of the 
envelope and took from it the key which had last been 
held by that long-dead hand. 

He opened the box. It contained a small box and a 
long envelope addressed to “My Child.” 

With trembling fingers and profound emotion, Jerry 
unfolded the yellowed sheets of paper. The concluding 
page was exposed to view. He saw the signature at 
the end. He leapt to his feet. The box fell unheeded to 
the floor. His face went pale to the semblance of death. 
“Great God!” he ejaculated in stupefaction, as he again 
read the signature, incredulously, read it aloud: 

“Charles Cecil Nevil Trevider.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


Jerry read: 

“I have a prophetic Impression I am addressing my 
son. 

“Perhaps it is only the intense hope of my heart that 
you, my child, may be a boy, which produces this com¬ 
forting conviction. It may be but the inherent desire 
bred of our English law of primogeniture. I passion¬ 
ately desire you to be a son. 

“I no longer grieve that I am not to share your life. 
Failure is contagious. It is disintegrating to be long in 
intimate contact with failures of any kind. The suc¬ 
cessful structure of your character, your very life- 
success, depends upon my withdrawal. 

“In the choice of your mother I evinced an unchar¬ 
acteristic wisdom. She is a Ravenel. She is efficient. 
In deliberately withholding from her the facts concern¬ 
ing my birth, my true name, and my rights of in¬ 
heritance, I shall perhaps stand at the bar of your judg¬ 
ment accused of unfairness, ungenerosity, if not actual 
cruelty. One can endeavour only along the line which 
seems convincingly right to oneself, regardless of ver¬ 
dict. 

“I have planned solely for my child. I have had 
to sacrifice my wife for my child. 

“Above all, I desire my child to be self-sufficient, 
strong, independent, chivalrous. 

“Your mother will find a way. She will have to 
work. She will set you an example which will not be 
wasted. Your sense of chivalry will be roused by wit- 
301 


302 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


nessing her efforts to support you. Her labours will 
incite you to industry. Necessity will, I hope, teach 
you efficiency. 

“Your mother, no matter what drudgery she may 
have to undertake, will always remain the gentlewoman. 
You will inherit from her an instinctive delicacy of 
refinement, without snobbishness. 

“Lack of funds may deprive you of a college educa¬ 
tion, but nothing can rob you of the larger education 
of life—of experience. I wish to insure that you grow 
up an American, without any hope of advancement in 
life save that to be won by your own abilities, your 
own character, your own industry. In assuring this, 
by my silence, I am providing you with a far better 
heritage than if I gave you at birth the right to claim 
a great English estate. 

“By the time you receive this letter your life-struc¬ 
ture will have been fashioned, your character moulded, 
your ideals established. This will have been the work 
of your mother, of a life of struggle, and—above all— 
of America. You will then be matured into the youth 
I dream of—the son whom I desire to go to England 
to claim all that I relinquished, a son who will bring to 
his inheritance a fresh, brave, stalwart spirit, ruggedly 
reared. 

“To comprehend my plan and my ideals for you it 
will perhaps be necessary to become autobiographical. 

“Never until the age of four-and-twenty had I known 
a hardship, a trial, a lack of funds. I came of proud 
old Cornish stock of inherited affluence. I was educated 
at Oxford and took a degree in law. With an inherited 
tendency to gamble, I got heavily in debt even in my 
college days. My father paid the debts with a sort of 
pride. I was a chip of the old block. Some months 
after graduation I went to London. My father put 
me into an office in the Temple. One night at my 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


303 


father’s club, of which I had been made a member, 
there was a game of cards. The cards, it disclosed it¬ 
self later, had been tampered with. Details at this late 
date are unnecessary, but there ensued a deplorable 
scene. Appearances were not in my favour. I was 
accused of cheating. I resigned from the club. My 
father came to London. He disbelieved me. He be¬ 
lieved his own son, his own flesh and blood, a Trevider, 
could be guilty of that! When I realized this fact I 
parted from him. I have never forgiven my father. 
My last moment will find me unrelenting in my bitter¬ 
ness toward him. Now that I myself am facing father¬ 
hood, now that I can sense within myself the response, 
the understanding, the faith which I could bring to a 
son of mine, I forgive my father less than ever. 

“I refused to accept a penny from him. I threw his 
proud name in his face. I rejected for ever the in¬ 
heritance which would be mine at his death. I went 
forth from him blind, staggering under a deadly bruise. 

“For weeks I drifted about town. I unsuccessfully 
sought manual labour on the docks. I fell in with 
sailors and frequented sailors’ pubs. It was at a pub 
that I became acquainted with the man whose name 
I have handed on to you—Middleton. 

“John Middleton was a rugged young seaman, a 
decent enough chap. I have respected his name and 
have tried to keep it clean. It was he who took me 
to the Sailors’ Home in Dock Street, where I lived for 
some weeks. Middleton had fallen in love with the 
daughter of a Houndsditch publican. He decided to 
give up the sea. With pliable morals, he offered to sell 
me his ship’s papers for a tidy sum, to allow me the 
use of his name. The bargain was concluded. In an¬ 
other week I, as John Middleton, got a chance. I 
shipped to Australia. The work was hard to one un¬ 
accustomed, the life rough. By the time we reached 


304 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


port I thought I had had enough of the sea for ever. 
I got my discharge. When my savings began to give 
out I, in desperation, resumed the name of Trevider 
and presented myself to an old friend of my father in 
Sydney, and asked for a situation. From my recep¬ 
tion by him, I concluded that the story of the London 
club had travelled far—even to Australia. I saw my¬ 
self for ever branded as a cheat. I then planned my 
death. 

“The next day I went to a lonely shore. In the 
pockets of the London suit which I was wearing I 
placed old letters addressed to me in the Temple, and 
a card requesting that my father in Cornwall be noti¬ 
fied in case of my death. At some distance farther 
down the shore I hid the sea clothes of £ John Middle- 
ton/ I disrobed, leaving the garments of Cevil Trevider 
on the beach, beyond the reach of tide. I swam down 
to the farther shore, put on my old sailor things, and 
became for the remainder of my life John Middleton. 
Cecil Trevider was dead, drowned. 

“I soon reshipped, cruising to New Zealand, Fiji, 
various South American ports, and eventually Canada. 
After a half-year in Canada I sailed for Charleston, 
South Carolina. By this time I had definitely decided 
to give up the sea. I hoped that my education and 
knowledge of law might be turned to account. But I 
had no credentials. I could not mention or prove 
my Oxford degree. I think I must have applied 
unsuccessfully for a position as clerk to every attorney 
in Charleston. 

“In The Charleston News and Courier I read an 
account of a legal action conducted in the Charleston 
courts by Mr. Mean Brooks of Ninety-Six, South 
Carolina. I was impressed by the cleverness shown 
by Mr. Brooks. I went to call upon him, and requested 
him to let me study law with him for a year. It was 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


305 


arranged. At the end of that year I was admitted 
to the bar of South Carolina. I have remained in the 
office of Mr. Brooks ever since. I had no love of the 
law, and therefore have been a failure as a barrister. 
I had no ambition in particular. I had an inherited 
passion for gambling. The South offers ample scope 
for this. This passion, if inherited by you, will have 
little opportunity to disclose itself in the life of struggle 
and hardship which I plan for you. ...” 

Here Jerry lifted his eyes from the letter for the 
first time. His thoughts went back. . . . His Solu¬ 
tion—his adventure in Euston Road—his challenge to 
Fate. . . . Good God! the inherited instinct! 

He, Jerry Trevider, had been the greatest gambler 
of them all. In him the Trevider trait had reached 
its meridian. ... He saw it now. 

His eyes again dropped to the document of his 
father. He read on: 

“When you receive this letter I wish you to go to 
England. By then my father will probably be dead. 
If my brother Robert or my sister Felicity are at 
Tolvean, Trewarthenith, Cornwall, you will present to 
them the seal ring, separately enclosed. It was my 
grandfather’s ring, given me on my twenty-first birth¬ 
day. It will serve you as the sword and sandals of 
his father served Theseus. 

“Let my life vindicate itself as an example. Be the 
antithesis of all I have been. If there is a life beyond 
—any survival of personality, any opportunity to 
serve those one’s mortal heart yearned toward—then 
I, from beyond the veil, shall assist you as I may, 
guide you toward the goal I desire for you, lead you 
at last to the home of our forefathers, a more worthy 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


306 

successor to the estate of our ancestors than I would 
have been. 

“God grant me power after death.” 

“Power after death,” Jerry repeated wonderingly, 
as he folded the discoloured sheets. To what degree 
had that prayer been answered? How much guidance 
had indeed come from his father? How maddeningly 
incomprehensible were life and death. Oh! the 
intricate weavings of Fate. In the most seemingly 
witless life-riddle there was probably always a definite 
design. There may have been a carefully conceived 
plan in all his own apparently chaotic affairs. 

Had it not been for the actual impossibility to 
procure work, the lack of food, he would never have 
had the idea of the Solution. And only by doing 
the seemingly mad thing he had done, could his pho¬ 
tograph have got into the papers; only by its appear¬ 
ance there could Aunt Felicity’s attention have been 
fixed upon the indisputable Trevider features; only 
by Aunt Felicity’s claim of him as her lost nephew 
could this final revelation have come. 

In all probability he would never have returned to 
South Carolina. There were no longer any ties to 
draw him back. But for his amazing resemblance to 
his Cousin Monty, and Aunt Felicity’s natural error 
in mistaking him for Monty, he would never have 
received his father’s letter. 

Read backward, the puzzles of life are solvable. 
One sees, in perspective, the meaning, the purpose. 
Nothing is inconsequential. 

Fate—and who knows—perhaps his dead father— 
had been pushing him steadfastly toward Tolvean and 
his own. 

Jerry was still too overwhelmed by the extraordi¬ 
nary revelations of the letter to think of the beautiful 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


307 


vistas which were now mircaulously opened to him. 

He suddenly remembered the small box, and took 
from it an old seal ring. Then he thought of the 
patiently waiting Aunt Felicity—really and truly 
henceforth his very own Aunt Felicity. It seemed 
almost too wonderful. But before seeing Aunt 
Felicity he wanted to see another. He lit a candle 
and went down the stairs. He passed Aunt Felicity’s 
door and descended to the hall. 

Long rows of his ancestors flanked the walls on 
either side. He recalled his precipitate, ashamed 
flight past their seemingly accusing eyes, on his first 
night at Tolvean. Now he could gaze at them fear¬ 
lessly, proudly. 

He went to the far end by the entrance and held 
up the candle. Its rays illumined a young, winsome 
face. A boy’s frank eyes looked lovingly into his 
own. The mobile lips flashed a welcoming smile. 

Jerry felt a clutch in his throat, tears filled his eyes. 

“Father!” he cried. 

All the lonely longing of the fatherless sounded in 
that yearning cry. 

A few minutes later he was standing before Miss 
Felicity. He held out the old crested ring. 

Miss Felicity stared as one beholding the dead. 

“Where—where did you get it?” 

“It was my father’s,” said Jerry. “Oh! Aunt 
Felicity, don’t you grasp the truth—the marvellous, 
heavenly truth? You were right. Your heart was 
right. You knew. You instinctively felt the truth.” 

Aunt Felicity seemed stunned. “I can’t under¬ 
stand. What is it, my dear? My head doesn’t seem 
to work-” 

Jerry seized her in his arms. He kissed her eyes, 
her cheeks, her mouth. 


308 FATE AND A MARIONETTE 

“Oh! dearest, blessedest, darlingest of all earthly 
Aunts, don’t you realize that I am your nephew?” 

“But how-” began Miss Felicity, still too dazed 

to reason or surmise. 

“Read this,” said Jerry. “We’ll read it together. 
Start at the beginning, and don’t look at the end till 
you get there.” 

They read, heads bowed together, Jerry’s arm about 
her. They had not reached the second page before 
Miss Felicity grasped the truth. She turned ahd 
stared at Jerry, a radiant wonder shining in her eyes. 

“Oh! my dear, dear boy,” was all she could say, 
as she clasped his hand. Hungrily she turned back 
to her brother’s letter. She read through silently to 
the end. 

“My dreams!” She turned her tear-filled eyes to 
Jerry. “Year after year that same dream—Cecil 
before me—Cecil trying to tell me something. . . ., 
Oh! now I realize. . . . My precious Cecil’s boy— 
my own boy!” 

“Aunt Felicity”—Jerry got up abruptly—“where’s 
Polly?” 

“I think she’s gone to bed. I’ll call her. She 
must know. She must share the wonderful truth 
with us.” 

Jerry put a restraining hand on her arm. “Dearest, 
you won’t mind if I see her first, see her alone, will 
you?” He did not wait for a reply. 

Once in the corridor he stood indeterminate. The 
moment of which he had dreamt, which he had re¬ 
hearsed a thousand times, which he had accustomed 
himself to think of as belonging to some far-distant 
year, was Here! 

It had come so unannouncedly it found him un¬ 
prepared. Even at dinner to-night the thought of 
Polly as his wife belonged so indisputably to a must-be- 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


309 

postponed future, that he had not permitted himself 
to more than brush, with the edge of a wing of thought, 
the rapturous possibility. The planned declaration 
to Polly had had in his thoughts the curtain raiser of 
wordly possessions and position achieved by long- 
inspired years of labour. And now through the 
miraculous transformation wrought by a black tin box, 
by the magic of an old seal ring, he was in a position 
to declare himself without a second’s delay. It 
smacked of genies and the Aladdin’s lamp sort of 
thing. He could go at once to Polly and say that he 
was of her very blood, and the inheritor of the fairest 
acres in Cornwall. He could ask her to share with 
him for life the old home of their forefathers. 

Yet he hesitated, delayed. The verity of that 
hesitation disclosed itself: He did not want to be 
accepted by Polly as Jerry Trevider. He wanted to 
be taken as Jerry Middleton. He wanted to see 
Polly evidence the true Trevider character—the trait 
of chance-it—the gambling instinct. He wanted her 
to love him enough to show her heart—still believing 
him a penniless American soldier of fortune, an in¬ 
significant employee of the shipping house of Bough ton- 
Leigh. He wanted her to accept him for himself, to 
take him solely because she couldn’t help it, because 
she must. 

And—just as in the past he had had a punctilious 
sense of responsibility toward the name of Monty 
Trevider, a desire to play that role on the level, so 
now he had a sense of responsibility, pride, gratitude, 
and loyalty to the vanishing Jerry Middleton. Polly’s 
acceptance, before she knew the truth, was a tribute 
which his entire being demanded should be given to 
the personal Jerry Middleton, whom he recognized 
would be for ever gone after to-night. 


3io 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


He walked to Polly’s door. He rapped twice, and 
in tremulous tones gave the old password. 

A match was struck. He heard Polly moving. In 
another instant she stood before him in a flung-on 
dressing-gown, her hair a chaotic mass of waves and 
curls, her cheeks pink, and her eyes as shining as his. 

Jerry fumbled in a pocket. He fetched forth the 
“fairy ring.” 

Polly silently held up the right hand, as she had so 
often done in the past. Jerry made no move. 

“Polly,” said he, “you’ve another hand. Won’t 
you?” 

Polly’s cheeks suddenly blanched. Her breathing 
grew quicker. Her eyelids drooped, the dimple near 
lip-comer seemed to twinkle. 

“Couldn’t you?” begged Jerry. 

Her left hand twitched, then slowly rose and reached 
toward him. 

He took it reverently, and slipped the ring on the 
fourth finger. He had meant to kiss it, but the left 
hand, the right hand of Polly had flown through the 
air, two arms were about his neck, and a soft voice 
somewhere near his heart was saying: 

“Old cat eyes!” 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


It was surely the tiniest Christmas tree in the world. 
Jerry had spent all morning searching in the Tolvean 
woods for just the perfectly symmetrical tree of the 
required Lilliputian dimensions. It was placed in the 
centre of the largest table to be found in the house, 
the placing of which had necessitated the removal of 
Polly’s desk into Jerry’s adjoining room. 

With complete preoccupation Jerry attached to the 
tree a glowing ball of gold, then one of silver, another 
of blue, and a last of scarlet. On the very tip of top 
he balanced and wired a tiny dove. Slender streamers 
of silver tinsel were draped then swirled round the 
base of the tree. A few candles were distributed here 
and there. It was complete. Jerry felt the pride of a 
great artist. 

“Now Polly, you may open your eyes and look.” 
He stepped back with a fatuous smile. 

Polly turned her head on the pillow and gazed at 
the masterpiece. 

“Oh! Oh!! Oh!!! It’s just too booful, Jerry- 
darlin’. Won’t he be surprised in the morning? Oh! 
Jerry, I think we might let him see it to-night. He’ll 
have forgotten it by to-morrow.” 

“No.” Jerry was firm. “Christmas is Christmas, 
and there’s no forestalling. Now I must put the gifts 
round it.” 

He disappeared into his room and was busily 
engaged for some time, opening packages, reinspect¬ 
ing their contents, then doing them all up again with 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


312 

red ribbon and appropriate messages. Here was the 
box from Page, Leek, & Page containing the string 
of pearls for Polly. There was the lovely old cameo 
brooch he had found at the curiosity shop in Penzance, 
for Aunt Felicity. This package held a Shetland wool 
shawl for Paynter. A long box contained President 
Eliot’s five feet of books for Wiggs, and there was a fat 
bundle of yards and yards of black silk for Miss Winnie 
Wiggs. (With happy ignorance, Jerry had purchased 
enough for two and a half frocks.) 

And here in a little box was an absurdly tiny 
garment, all hand embroidered and as sheer as a cob¬ 
web. Polly would be surprised at the good taste he 
had exhibited! He didn’t know how surprised Polly 
would be when she saw the size; it was small, to be 
sure, but it was a frock that could under no possible 
chance of the most precocious development be worn 
by the one for whom it was intended before another 
Christmas. 

Jerry blissfully carried in the gifts one by one to 
make them seem more. He distributed them about 
the tiny tree, which was to be the heart-centre of all 
their Christmas joy. 

“Come quick, Jerry!” summoned Polly from the 
bed. “I think he’s about to smile.” 

Jerry dropped his package and rushed as one would 
to see a great and evanescent phenomenon of Nature. 

Polly whispered: 

“He’s having one of his little roll-eye-dreams, and 
he nearly always smiles then.” 

Jerry bent over and stared fixedly at the wee, 
crumpled, pink, featureless countenance pillowed on 
Polly’s arm. The two parents remained breathlessly 
expectant for a full minute, watching the eyes roll 
wildly about in the opened but sleeping lids, showing 
at times nothing but the whites in the most ghastly 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 313 

fashion. At last, as a probable small pressure of 
wind occurred in the tiny tummy, the infant’s lips 
writhed in the ghost of a smile. 

The young mother gave a deep ecstatic sigh. Words 
would have been inadequate for such a moment of 
overpowering fruition. 

After an awed silence she turned to her husband. 
“Jerry, dear, do you know, I think he must really 
be a holy child. You see, coming so near 
Christmas. ...” 

“Of course he’s a holy child if you’re his mother.” 

“Jerry!” cried Polly, with sudden stupefaction, 
“have you realized this poor child doesn’t even know 
that Columbus discovered America? Oh! think of 
all he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know of the Ice Age! 
He’s got to learn all about George Washington and 
Eve and Queen Elizabeth and Carpentier and 
Napoleon and Mrs. Asquith and the Prince of Wales 
and Woodrow Wilson and God and Clemenceau and 
Noah and Lloyd George and The Irish and Winston 
Churchill. Oh! dear. Why, it’s enough to drive the 
poor little thing perfectly raving crazy.” Polly’s eyes 
were dilated with horror. 

Jerry refused to take the future agonies of his son 
too seriously. “Anyway, he won’t have them all 
chucked at him in a bunch—that’s some comfort. 
We’ll start off gently with some old scandal like ‘The 
dish ran away with the spoon,’ and lead up gently 
to Mrs. Asquith and the Flood.” 

“But just think—the war. This poor child hasn’t 
even heard about the war. . . . And he lying here 
looking so like a great general. He does look like a 
general, doesn’t he, Jerry?” 

“Spittin’ image of Foch,” declared Jerry solemnly. 

“Oh, I do hope he will be brave like his father,” 


314 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


sighed Polly, “and not be scared to death of bats and 
spiders like his poor silly mudder.” 

There was a knock at the door. Wiggs entered. 

“The steward, sir, would like to see you below. And 
the staff send their compliments, and hope you’ll 
honour them by sharing their celebration in the old 
kitchen for a few minutes. And, sir”—Wiggs pro¬ 
duced from behind his back a small oblong box—“I’ve 
made so bold as to get a trifle for Master Cecil’s first 
Christmas.” 

“How splendid of you, Wiggs!” cried Polly. 
“Open it, Jerry. He’s asleep and can’t see it.” 

Jerry opened and held up a toothifier—a lovely 
bauble of mother-of-pearl and silver, with bells and a 
whistle. It seemed to bring before one a convincing 
vision of actual teeth to come. Jerry felt like giving 
a cheer. He shook the embarrassed Wiggs violently 
by the shoulders. Then, without letting go, he turned 
to Polly and asked: “Shall I tell him now?” Polly 
wagged her head affirmatively. 

“Wiggs”—Jerry paused; it was a tremendous 
moment to him—“Wiggs, old man, Miss Polly and 
I want you to be Cecil’s godfather.” It was out. 

Wiggs reeled a little. 

“Oh, sir! But, sir—but really, sir-” 

“Now don’t be an ass,” advised Jerry. 

“But, sir—it’s—I’m afraid it’s not done. I fear 
it would be misunderstood. . . . It’s too great—far 
too great an honour. You see, sir, the countryside 
wouldn’t understand. It would appear to them as— 
if I may so put it—American democracy. For your 
own sake, I’m afraid I must decline.” 

“Hang the countryside!” said Jerry. “I’m not 
asking you as my servant. Good God! Wiggs, I’m 
asking my best friend to be the godfather of my son. 
I reckon any man’s got a right to do that” 



FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


315 

“You’re too good, sir,” stammered Wiggs, his eyes 
looking tragically human and glistening. 

“If he takes after his mother, to say nothing of his 
father, he’ll be all-fired proud—when he gets old 
enough to be proud—of his godfather. Look here, 
Wiggs, Miss Trevider knows all about this and she 
approves. She’s to be godmother. Now what do 
you say?” 

“Thanks, sir!” Wiggs bowed and fled, before all 
self-possession deserted him. 

“Pure gold,” commented Jerry. “Gold and 
diamonds clean through. And to-morrow, after the 
gifts have been handed out, he’ll hear about the 
rest.” Jerry had arranged to give a charming old 
cottage near the mansion to Wiggs and Miss Winnie 
Wiggs for life possession. 

Miss Winnie was at that moment among the merry¬ 
makers down in the old kitchen. This kitchen was now 
used only at the Christmas season; it alone possessed 
a sufficiently huge fireplace to hold the Christmas Eve 
Yule log, or “mock,” as Paynter termed it. 

When Jerry unobservedly entered, a gay scene 
greeted him. 

The oak beams and panelling of the old kitchen were 
garlanded with greens, holly, and mistletoe. The 
candles had all been extinguished, and only the warm 
glow of the Yule log lighted the room. The game of 
“snapdragon” was in merry progress. A quantity 
of raisins in a huge bowl had been covered with brandy, 
then ignited, and Wiggs, Miss Winnie Wiggs, Old 
Stevens, Young Stevens, Trevorrow, Paynter, Alice, 
the old butler, the tweeny, cook, the scullery wench, 
the coachman, groom, and the new chauffeur were all 
making laughing efforts to grasp a raisin by thrusting a 
hand through the blue flames. 

When Jerry was discovered, the gay abandon became 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


316 

hushed. The steward, striking an attitude, delivered 
an evidently carefully rehearsed speech. He was 
speaking for the tenantry of Tolvean. He said many 
noble things of the ten-day-old heir, of the loyalty of 
the tenants toward him, of their good wishes for his 
future, and concluded by presenting in their name a 
handsome silver tray properly inscribed to the young 
master, with the agent’s and all the tenants’ names 
engraved in full. 

Wiggs was then seized with a coughing spell, and 
Jerry surmised he was to be again addressed. In true 
declamtory style, reminiscent of his old school¬ 
master days, Wiggs, in remarkably imposing English, 
spoke, as he said, “on behalf of the staff.” After 
his oratory had been brought to a successful conclusion, 
he presented the gift of the servants—a silver porridge 
bowl and spoon. 

Jerry responded by wringing the hands of all 
violently. He then suggested that Wiggs fetch down 
the gramophone so they might dance. He was sure 
from Paynter’s expression she was longing to fling a 
foot. This produced much masculine merriment and 
feminine giggling. 

Then Jerry was asked to sample the punch brewed 
by the butler, assisted by Miss Winnie Wiggs. They 
drank to the King, then to the master, then to the 
young master—God bless ’im! 

“And,” added Jerry, “aren’t you going to drink 
to the mistress and Miss Trevider?” Indeed they 
would. 

“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” almost 
sang Jerry as he left the room with full heart and hands. 

Polly was overcome when she saw the baby’s 
treasures. 

“Aren’t they all just too bully?” asked Jerry. 
“Lord! It sure gets my goat. And there was that 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


3i7 

old blighter, Trevor row, drinking to the baby’s health 
as if he’d lay down his life for him.” 

“And so he would, I’m sure,” said Polly. 

“I’m awfully glad I asked him to come back. What 
does it matter if he isn’t the best carpenter in the 
world? He’s ours. Polly,” he added thoughtfully, 
“I believe I’m getting English. I begin to see the 
relative value of things more clearly. Why, bless you, 
the very imperfections of England are beautiful. It’s 
the beauty of the imperfect mellow. Now a young 
apple is round, firm, and green; a perfectly ripe apple 
is not perhaps so flawless—it may have a soft spot 
or two—but it’s mellow and it’s sweet—oh! it’s sweet. 

“Of course efficiency and insistence on results are 
all right, and getting the last drop out of everything 
and the break-neck rush to make a fortune are probably 
praiseworthy, but these things aren’t the sole objects 
for which we were born. The English realize that life 
was intended to be lived. After a man has made a 
fairly sufficient amount over here, he retires and enjoys 
it—he has time to enjoy his sports and his fads, has 
time to get acquainted with his family, to cultivate 
his friends, to read, to walk, to picnic, to tea. It 
all makes for the grace and charm of living. Men 
aren’t mere business machines here; they are delightful, 
social, human beings. 

“Yes, I’ve changed. I don’t give a hang now if 
Stevens gets only a peck of potatoes where, with more 
efficient methods, he might get a peck and a half. 
Stevens gets all the potatoes we need, and he loves 
the place, and he’s ours. 

“And this thing of entail is fine. Now I feel that 
Tolvean is a trust which I hold for my son. I’m not 
going to throw money away trying to out-bluff my 
neighbours, or burn my trees, or let my bridges fall 
down, or let my cottages rot. I’m going to husband 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


3i8 

all these things carefully for my son, and he’ll do the 
same for his—just as all our forefathers have sacredly 
carried out their obligations to succeeding generations. 
It’s right to instil stability into the individual, force 
him to recognize the obligation of father to son— 
family. 

“But I can’t stand here and shoot off my mouth. 
I’ve got a thousand things to do. This piece of mistle¬ 
toe, for instance.” Jerry got upon a chair, stretched 
across Polly and the baby, and suspended the branch 
from the tester just over Polly’s head. “ ‘And any 
lord of creation may kiss the fair lady beneath.’ ” 
He stooped and kissed Polly. 

“What are the plans for to-morrow?” asked Polly. 

“Christmas gift distribution in here, where you can 
see it, in the morning. Then to church with Aunt 
Felicity! Sir Felicity to dinner at one.” 

“Turkey and sausage and bread sauce,” supplied 
Polly, “and wee mince pies and plum-pudding alight, 
and hothouse grapes, saved especially by Stevens, 
and crackers to pull!” 

“And at night I’m giving the dinner to the tenants 
at the ‘Pig and Whistle.’ Then on Boxing Day we— 
our farmers and neighbouring farmers—course with 
the greyhounds. That night there’s the big coursing 
dinner at ‘The Queen’s, where I’m to sing—sing 
‘John Peel’ and ‘My Old Shako.’ And Wiggs, by my 
special request, has been invited. He has confessed 
he can sing! What do you think he’s going to sing?” 

“ ‘I’ll Sing thee Songs of Araby,’ ” ventured Polly. 

“Wrong! Better still, ‘Come Rest in this Bosom, 
My Own Stricken Dear.’ ” 

Polly shrieked with laughter. “Will Sir Wilfred be 
there?” 

“Sure! He’ll render, ‘Drink to Me only with Thine 

Eyes.’ ” 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


3i9 

“I wish Aunt Felicity could hear him. Doesn’t it 
seem too absurdly wonderful to think she has really 
accepted him? Poor Sir Wilfred! It was the only 
possible balm for his pride after the Cooleying of Celia. 
At any rate, he will now at last be allied to the House 
of Trevider. And Aunt Felicity told me this afternoon 
that she had just received a letter saying he had decided 
to accept the offer of the A. and O.—he’s going to sell 
out to them and retire.” 

“Then he and Aunt Felicity can have their year of 
travel, and she’ll see all the places she’s dreamed of— 
protected by a man.” 

“Then Sir Wilfred is going to write his memoirs! 
Now, Jerry, tell me why is it no Englishman of im¬ 
portance can help blossoming into a memoir?” 

“Search me! Sort of inevitable blooming of the 
century plant. I’m awfully glad Monty can come on 
to the wedding. I’ve naturally got some curiosity to 
see him?” A sound of singing came from without. 
“What’s that?” 

“Oh! The Christmas Waits.” Polly clapped her 
hands. “Jerry-love, open the window quick. I’ll 
cover Cecil and myself up.” 

Jerry leaned out the window. Below, under the 
old tree where the rooks came at eventide, stood the 
group of carol singers; an old lantern threw grotesque 
shadows of their bodies on hedge and house wall. A 
bent old man was playing a violin. 

“It’s Blue-nose Billy, the blind milk-man!” ex¬ 
claimed Polly. “Oh! Jerry, it’s all just the same as 
when I was a little girl.” 

“God rest you, merry gentlemen, 

Let nothing you dismay, 

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, 

Was born upon this day. . . 


320 


FATE AND A MARIONETTE 


The words and harmonies of the beautiful old carol 
seemed more magical than ever to Polly. 

“Isn’t it too heavenly? Come and hold my hand 
tight, Jerry. Christmas in England is surely the most 
beautiful thing in the world.” 

When the next verse began, Polly joined in softly. 

“In Bethlehem, in Jewry, 

This blessed Babe was born, 

And laid within a manger 
Upon this blessed morn, 

The whilst his mother Mary 
Nothing did take in scorn.” 

Polly held her own blessed babe so close it awoke 
and blinked, deliberating whether to howl or not. It 
decided to whimper. “Hush, darling, hush.” Polly 
patted it. “Listen to the pretty music.” 

Cecil listened and heard: 

“When Christ was born of Mary free. 

In Bethlehem in that fair citie, 

Angels sang there with mirth and glee 
In Excelsis Gloria ” 

The singing stopped. The carolers had evidently 
been invited in to partake of the cheer in the old 
kitchen. 

Polly wondered if anybody in the world had ever 
been just as happy as she. With her arch corner-eye 
glance she turned to Jerry: 

“Who’ you love?” 

Jerry, brows frowning, appeared to be weighing the 
question ^seriously. His face cleared. 

“Fate!” cried he exultantly. 

And he enfolded the two most precious gifts of Fate 
in his arms. 


THE END 


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